


Cowboys Ain't Easy to Love

by Dormchi



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Accidental overdose, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brief Mention of Arthur/Abigail, Canon-Typical Violence, Dumb Cowboys in Love, Dysfunctional Relationships, Excessive Drinking, First Time, Hanahaki Disease, How Many Tropes Can I Fit Into One Fic, John is a Mess, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Oral Sex, Pining, Pre-Video Game: Red Dead Redemption 2 (2018), Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-03-20 19:00:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18998602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dormchi/pseuds/Dormchi
Summary: One of the first things John remembers after Dutch took him in is… well. Arthur. Just Arthur.Arthur was two heads taller than him then and had just turned 22 a few days prior. He had this comfortable and effortless nature about him, like he could handle whatever good or bad the world threw at him with ease, and a handsomer face than most outlaws, though John hadn’t met many at that point. Everyone in the gang liked him, that much was immediately clear, and John never stood a chance when Arthur sauntered up to him, extended a hand, and welcomed him with a lopsided grin.He couldn’t help but like Arthur from that moment onward.John Marston has been in love with Arthur Morgan for a long time. The problem is, he's never told him so.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my self-indulgent Hanahaki fic for RDR2. The happier, smuttier part is coming in Chapter 2, which is currently a WIP.
> 
> And that's about it. Not beta'd, so forgive any mistakes. <3
> 
> Title taken from the song "Mammas Don't Let Your Babies Grow up to Be Cowboys" by Willie Nelson & Waylon Jennings.

One of the first things John remembers after Dutch took him in is… well. Arthur. Just Arthur.

 

Arthur was two heads taller than him then and had just turned 22 a few days prior. He had this comfortable and effortless nature about him, like he could handle whatever good or bad the world threw at him with ease, and a handsomer face than most outlaws, though John hadn’t met many at that point. Everyone in the gang liked him, that much was immediately clear, and John never stood a chance when Arthur sauntered up to him, extended a hand, and welcomed him with a lopsided grin.

 

He couldn’t help but like Arthur from that moment onward.

 

For a while, it was something like hero worship. Arthur was the closest in the group to his age, but still had 10 years worth of experience that John didn’t have. He could shoot a gun with frightening accuracy, charm a beautiful woman, and drink most of the other gang members under the table. Sometimes two, or all three, of those things at the same time. Everything that Arthur did, he seemed like a natural at it, and John envied that about him.

 

For a few years, he learned everything from Dutch that the man was willing to teach him -- things like shooting (which he had a proficiency for), reading (which he didn’t), hunting, and how to live off the land (by choice or because he’s on the run from the law). When he wasn’t learning from Dutch, he was following Arthur around like a shadow while trying to not seem like one. Arthur had learned from Dutch just like John, and still somehow managed to amaze John all the time with new tricks of the trade.

 

They spent a lot of time together in those first few years. Arthur referred to John as “the little brother I never wanted”, but he always said it so fondly that John never took it personally.

 

Those are some of John’s happiest memories, which he’ll only ever come close to admitting out loud if he has a dangerous amount of drink in him and if he’s sure he won’t remember when he wakes up.

 

Then, sometime just after John’s 14th birthday, he woke up sore all over. His voice cracked something awful when he spoke at breakfast that morning, and Dutch slapped him hard on the shoulder before announcing in that booming voice of his, more than loud enough for the entire camp to hear, “Young John Marston has become a man!”

 

It was downright embarrassing, being teased constantly for the next year as he sprouted up like a weed and his voice got a bit deeper, but it felt real good when he finally started seeing eye-to-eye with Arthur and stopped having to tilt his head back to look at him.

 

They were closer to being equals at that point, in John’s eyes. A few more years, give or take, should do it.

 

Two years later, Arthur Morgan met Mary Gillis and John’s feelings for Arthur transformed from hero worship into something else entirely.

 

\--

 

John starts coughing on a Wednesday.

 

He doesn’t think much of it. With as many cigarettes as he smokes, a cough now and then is hardly out of the ordinary. He smothers it in his sleeve and keeps to himself mostly, not wanting anyone to hear him and gather that anything is wrong. The problem with living around so many people is that all of them have opinions, and he doesn’t need any unwanted opinions or ideas on what might be causing his cough.

 

When it persists for a few days, Abigail puts her hands on her hips, her swollen, pregnant belly framed between them, and makes him promise to lay off the smoking and drink water instead of whiskey until it clears up. She’s the only one besides Dutch who can get him to _promise_ anything. Even then, a promise to not drink and smoke lasts all of a few hours before he’s feeling temperamental and still coughing regardless.

 

He never told her how long he promised to refrain from smoking and drinking, so he rides out that afternoon to a cliff with a bottle of whiskey and a pack of cigarettes, and he smokes and drinks until the sun goes down.

 

Technically, he didn’t break his promise.

 

“Mind if I join you?”

 

A shiver runs directly up through John’s fingertips, all the way through his arms and shoulders to the base of his skull. He doesn’t make a pained noise out loud, but it’s a near thing.

 

A voice shouldn’t be able to do things like that to him.

 

“Of course, Arthur. Have a seat,” John says, waving a hand towards the fallen tree he’s been sitting on for the past however many hours. He moves down to the end of it so Arthur can sit at the other end, leaving plenty of room between them. Better that way, since John’s not able to control these involuntary reactions yet.

 

After six years of trying, he’s not sure he’s ever gonna be able to.

 

Arthur gets off his horse and starts walking towards John, with that same slow and steady saunter of his that does crazy things to John’s insides. He’s clutching his own bottle of something in his hand, and if John knows anything about anything (as long as it’s regarding shooting or Arthur, he probably does), then Arthur’s also got a pack of cigarettes in his coat pocket.

 

John takes a long swig from his bottle and tries not to flinch when Arthur sits down right next to him, leaving an inch or two of space between them. The inside of his throat immediately feels itchy and tight, but he drowns the need to cough with the burn of whiskey.

 

“Abigail said you rode out a few hours ago,” Arthur begins, uncapping the bottle in his hand, “and she weren’t sure when you’d be back.”

 

John didn’t tell Abigail where he was going, which means that Arthur tracked him down. It probably wasn’t too difficult for him. This isn’t the first time in the past 10 years that he’s had to -- John has a history of running away, and Arthur has a history of finding him.

 

“I just wanted some time alone.”

 

“Mm.”

 

The silence afterward is an open invitation that John knows very well. If John wants Arthur to listen, he’ll listen. If John wants Arthur to be quiet, then he’ll be quiet.

 

God, John wishes he could keep his mouth shut. It’s a skill he’s worked hard at over the years, but somehow Arthur Morgan just has to look at him in a certain kind of way and John immediately wants to tell him everything.

 

“Do you think I’ll be a good father?”

 

“Huh. Well, that’s a loaded question.” Arthur laughs and scrubs his hand over the stubble on his chin. “Can I get an easier one to start?”

 

“Arthur, I’m serious.”

 

“So am I.”

 

John grunts and moves to stand up, without any immediate idea of where he’s going to go, but Arthur grabs his wrist and stops him. “Hey, c’mon now. I was only teasin’ you, kid. Sit down.”

 

The spot on his wrist where Arthur touched feels hot, and as soon as John sits back down, he starts to cough. He pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket, the light blue one that Abigail gave him when they first got together, and covers his mouth with it as he coughs. His eyes water fiercely, and something wet and coppery comes up after a few moments, leaving John grimacing as he hacks up what is most definitely blood into his hand.

 

He can feel Arthur’s eyes on him, which seems to only worsen the burning in his throat and in his lungs.

 

Arthur claps John on the back a few times. “You should head into town and see the local doc. That cough sounds real bad.”

 

It’s the clear next step, since waiting out whatever this is didn’t seem to work, and now there’s blood, which there hadn’t been before. The only problem is that John hasn’t been to a doctor for anything other than a bullet wound in his entire life and he wasn’t scared then of dying. All of the bullets that have been dug outta him were well-earned. He could handle dying because of those.

 

He is scared, however, of finding out that he’s dying from some kind of sickness. Something incurable, with his luck. The thought hadn’t occurred to him before. He’s the kind of man that’s going to die young, he knows that well enough, but illness was never a possibility in his mind when he imagined how he’d go out one day.

 

Arthur snaps his fingers in front of John’s face. “Hey. You’re doin’ that thing, where you get lost in that head of yours. Talk to me, Marston.”

 

John’s coughing fit had stopped, but he hadn’t uncovered his mouth, lost in thought as he was. Quickly, he wipes at the wetness at the corners of his lips, hoping he’s doing an alright enough job of getting rid of whatever evidence there might be. He doesn’t look in the handkerchief as he pulls it away from his mouth, just balls it up and shoves it deep in the pocket of his coat.

 

When John speaks, his voice is unmistakably hoarse. “It’ll go away in a few days.”

 

“That’s what I figured when I first heard you coughin’, but it’s been a few days and it’s clearly gotten worse.”

 

John doesn’t know why he’s even surprised that Arthur noticed. It’s been Arthur’s job to look after him for the past 11 years, per Dutch’s request.

 

Besides that, Arthur has some of the keenest senses out of all of them, and John has never been very good at hiding anything from him in the first place.

 

“If it don’t go away in another day or so,” John starts, cursing himself already before he’s even got all the words out, “then I’ll see the local doc.”

 

Arthur leans into John in a way that’s meant to be friendly and comforting. For a few seconds, they’re touching from thigh to shoulder.

 

It takes everything John has not to whine and lean harder into him.

 

“Good.” Arthur nods, then moves back to his original position and pulls a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket. John thinks he knows Arthur too well at this point. “I’ll ride with you. I have some supplies I need to pick up.”

 

John swallows hard and nods. It’s not like he has a good reason to tell Arthur no.

 

He doesn’t cough again for the rest of the evening.

 

\--

 

When John was 16, Arthur fell in love with Mary Gillis.

 

He wouldn’t even have known, probably, had he not accidentally overheard Arthur and Dutch talking about it one night. They were sitting just behind camp, Arthur on one tree stump and Dutch on the other, close enough to John’s tent that if he sat close to the back of it he could hear them speaking quietly between them.

 

He wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. He wasn’t.

 

It just happened to be easy to do so, and he just couldn’t ever seem to make smart choices where Arthur was concerned.

 

“She’s just… she’s too good for the likes of me, Dutch.”

 

Dutch laughed. “And who gave you that idea? Her? Her daddy?” Arthur grunted after the second one. There was some rustling before Dutch spoke again, “Let me tell you something about rich men, Arthur: most rich men are poorer than beggars in one way or another. They might act high and mighty, but they’re no better than anyone else, trust me. They bleed like us, they shit like us, and they sure as hell sin like us.”

 

“He doesn’t want an outlaw bein’ with his daughter,” Arthur rumbled, and took an audible swig of something. “Don’t rightly blame him, neither. I’m not a good man, and she’s too perfect. Too good for this life.”

 

The way that Arthur talked about himself just then made John cover his mouth to stop from denying the words out loud. Whoever this girl Mary was, she wasn’t good enough for Arthur. John already knew it, without even having to meet her.

 

John would never give Arthur a scrap of a chance to feel that way.

 

“Have you asked her to come with us?” Dutch asked. “If you love her like you say you do, Arthur, then she’s more than welcome to join the family.”

 

Arthur didn’t answer for a suspiciously long time. After a while, John started to wonder if they noticed his shadow in the tent and knew that he was listening. He was in the middle of coming up with a convincing lie when Arthur finally answered.

 

“I asked her to marry me.”

 

_Oh._

 

In an instant, something twisted real painful inside John’s chest, strangely similar to the pain from being stabbed. He pressed his hand to his sternum, his short, grimy nails digging into the thin skin covering the hammering pulse at the base of his neck, and bit right into his lip to keep from making any noise.

 

He didn’t realize until much later that the pain in his chest was jealousy.

 

\--

 

John sleeps like the dead until mid-afternoon.

 

Arthur insisted they make their way back to camp after the liquor ran out. Together, they leaned on each other and stumbled to their horses, then somehow managed to ride back without falling off and breaking something.

 

At least, that’s what John thinks happened.

 

That part is real fuzzy, as are most parts.

 

He’s sitting up just barely, rubbing his eyes and trying to recall if he said anything stupid when Abigail enters the tent -- her stomach first, of course. Everywhere she goes now, her belly precedes her. She usually doesn’t look happy to see him, but in this case, she looks even more upset than usual. John watches through squinted eyes as she closes the flaps of the tent carefully behind her, and when she turns around again, he notices she’s clutching something tightly in her hand.

 

“Abigail,” John greets her, and politely nods his head, even though just doing that makes him feel like the world is going to spin out from underneath him.

 

Without any preamble, Abigail shows him what she’s holding — it’s a blue handkerchief, his blue handkerchief. In the middle of it are splatters of dried blood and wilted yellow flower petals. John stares at it dumbly.

 

“We need to talk about this,” she says quietly, with a subtle tremor to her voice that tells John she’s on the verge of crying. Maybe she already has. John doesn’t say anything, can’t possibly think of anything to say, so Abigail soldiers on in a hushed voice, “When were you gonna tell me that you’re dyin’, John Marston?”

 

“I didn’t know.”

 

“You didn’t…” Abigail laughs, her voice on the edge of hysterical. She shoves the handkerchief out towards him, giving him a better look at the contents of it. “You didn’t know that you have Blooming Lung? Really, John?”

 

No. No, he really didn’t.

 

Blooming Lung is considered a prostitute’s disease. It’s common for young, impressionable girls to fall in love with men who regularly visit them at the brothel and promise them a better life. In almost every case, the man eventually breaks all his promises, leaving the girl heartbroken and coughing. Generally, Blooming Lung goes away all on its own, as long as the person affected can get over their feelings. The other alternative is to confess and hope that the other person feels the same, but there are hardly any happy endings in that situation.

 

He’s only heard of Blooming Lung plaguing someone after heartbreak, but John hasn’t had his heart broken. Not for a very long time.

 

Abigail sighs and takes a seat next to him on the cot, clearly waiting for him to say something. He wishes there was something he could say, then, to make this tension between them go away. Wishes he had an explanation to give her.

 

He’s real tired of fighting with her.

 

They sit in silence for a while, before Abigail sighs and crumples the handkerchief in her fist. “If there’s any chance she might love you back, you should tell her how you feel.”

 

“What’re you talkin’ about?”

 

“All I’m sayin’ is it’s not me that you’re coughin’ up flowers for, John. I know that.” Abigail turns her head away, but not before John catches a glimpse of her watery smile. “And that’s alright. I love you and I don’t want you to die. I don’t know what I’d do without your foolish ass around.”

 

It hadn’t occurred to John until just then that there’s only one other person he’s ever loved, and while the feeling might be mutual in a familial sense, he doubts fiercely that Arthur Morgan has ever thought of him as anything other than an adopted brother.

 

Just thinking about Arthur sends a shiver through him, which is nothing new at this point.

 

“It don’t matter,” John says quietly. He feels Abigail stiffen beside him and readies himself for an inevitable fight.

 

Instead of shouting, Abigail responds just as quietly, and she sounds… sad. Defeated. “What do you mean, it don’t matter?”

 

“I mean that it don’t matter what you want or what I want. The person these flowers are for will never feel the same way about me, not in this lifetime. Ain’t no way.”

 

Abigail presses her fist to her mouth to muffle the wounded sound that comes out.

 

John hates himself for putting her through this. He hates himself for putting her through a lot of things. It’s not her fault, any of it, including the flowers growing in his lungs.

 

If he could just love her properly and accept that Arthur is out of his reach, this never would’ve happened.

 

“I’m going to see the doctor in town tomorrow,” he offers, to both fill the silence and to placate her. He hadn’t been planning on actually going until just this moment, but she doesn’t need to know that. “Arthur offered to come with me.”

 

The name tastes like blood in his mouth, now, and somehow he can’t stop his insides from burning.

 

Abigail shifts beside him and gives him a look that he can’t interpret for the life of him. For a few moments, she seems like she’s searching for something in his face, then she looks away. John has no idea what she saw, but he doesn’t get the chance to ask. She stands quickly, as quickly as her pregnant belly will allow, and heads for the entrance to the tent.

 

“Abigail.”

 

She stops and glances back at him, her eyes shining. Even on the verge of tears, she’s beautiful.

 

John doesn’t know what good it will do, but he needs her to know.

 

“I love you.”

 

Abigail’s expression softens a bit, and she smiles sadly.

 

“I know.”

 

\--

 

The doctor in Good Enough is a dark-skinned man who seems far too intelligent and cultured to be practicing medicine in a backwater shithole town like this one. Just like Arthur promised, he’d ridden into town with John and made sure that John went in to see the doctor. John has a sneaking suspicion that Abigail talked to Arthur after they spoke in their tent, but he can’t prove it.

 

He doesn’t know what she told him if anything at all. He doesn’t think he wants to know.

 

“Well, it’s not the worst case of Blooming Lung I’ve ever seen,” Dr. Green says as he hangs his stethoscope around his neck. “What is strange, though, is that you say you haven’t had your heart broken.”

 

John gave this whole Blooming Lung thing a lot of thought over a bottle of whiskey last night. He was probably about 16 when he realized that he was in love with Arthur, and years of trying to cope with that realization haven’t dulled his feelings any. He’s never had his heart broken because he’s never given Arthur the chance. He doesn’t need to -- he already knows how that will go, and he’d rather suffer in quiet than know that Arthur hates him.

 

“You said this whole visit is, uh… completely confidential, right, doc?” John asks.

 

“Absolutely, son. I’m here to heal, not to pass judgment or spread rumors.” Dr. Green flashes him a toothy smile and takes a seat on a stool in front of him. “There’s a church just down the street if that’s what you’re after.”

 

“I’d probably go up in flames if I set foot near it.”

 

“Like I said, I’m not here to judge.”

 

John’s heart hammers in his chest. He doesn’t exactly know why, but admitting it out loud after 6 years of keeping it to himself feels like an impossibility. The doctor is patient, though, and waits for him to get the words out.

 

“I’ve got a girl, a good girl,” John explains, trying to keep his voice steady. “A great girl, honestly. She’s pregnant.”

 

Dr. Green nods. “Congratulations.”

 

“I don’t know if the kid’s mine. But I want it to be.”

 

The doctor doesn’t comment, just waits for John to continue.

 

“I love her. I do. And I’d do anythin’ for that kid growin’ inside her. But I’ve been in love with someone else for a long time.”

 

“How long?” Dr. Green asks, pulling out a notebook from his coat pocket and a pen. John’s jaw tightens, and Dr. Green holds up a hand. “For anonymous notes only, you have my word. I actually find Blooming Lung fascinating, and I’ve never heard of a case anything like yours.”

 

John relaxes back into the examination chair, if only slightly. He doesn’t like being studied or poked at in any capacity, but he needs to see if there’s any way out of this that doesn’t involve him dying. “6 years.”

 

“Now _that_ is interesting.”

 

“Why is that?”

 

Dr. Green jots down a few things and looks up at him. “Blooming Lung is known for being an acute disease commonly contracted by prostitutes. You’re aware of this, correct?” John nods. “Well, a case of Blooming Lung developing over years of unrequited love is unheard of. I assume it’s unrequited. Have you told the person?”

 

“I’ve never told hi--them,” John catches himself, and if the good doctor notices, he has the decency not to say anything. “I’ve just lived with it because I know the feeling ain’t mutual.”

 

“I see.” The doctor takes more notes, including some crude drawings of the flower petals that John showed him earlier. He shows it to John and compares it to the flowers in the handkerchief. “And they’re prairie poppies. Very interesting.”

 

“I guess. What happens if this thing runs its course, doc?”

 

Dr. Green gives John a considering look and taps his pen against his notebook. “Well, as the flowers grow and fill your lungs, you’ll find it more and more difficult to breathe. The strain that will put on your heart is inevitable. Eventually, you’ll die from lack of oxygen or your heart will give out. Either way, it’ll be very painful.”

 

John expected an official prognosis from the doctor to feel a little more shocking, but instead, it just feels like he’s getting what he deserves. And truthfully, he’s been in love with Arthur for so long, it’s almost nice to know that there’ll be an end to it soon.

 

He just doesn’t know what he’s going to tell Abigail.

 

“How long have I got?” John asks, unsure if he actually wants to know the answer.

 

“Once the coughing starts to produce flowers, the prognosis isn’t good. I’d say you have a year if it suffocates you, perhaps a little longer if your heart fails.”

 

“... Your bedside manner really leaves somethin’ to be desired.”

 

“You know, you’re not the first person to tell me that.”

 

\--

 

John doesn’t tell anyone about his diagnosis from Dr. Green. Not Arthur, Abigail, or anyone else.

 

Of course, Abigail knows because she saw the evidence, but after he snaps at her for asking, she leaves it alone. The distance between them grows along with the baby inside her. John takes to drinking and sleeping outside, leaving the tent to Abigail. Most nights he passes out drunk and wakes up with a blanket covering him.

 

He never thanks her and she never brings it up.

 

Within a few weeks, John starts to cough more frequently. He carries the blue handkerchief around and hacks up blood and flower petals into it, then balls it up and stuffs it into the depths of his pocket. Whenever he comes back to camp, Abigail fishes it out of his clothes, washes it, and puts it back, folded neatly.

 

He volunteers for more jobs, particularly the ones that take days and don’t involve Arthur, but it doesn’t seem to matter how much distance he puts between himself and Arthur Morgan. No amount of distance or time apart makes the coughing lessen or stop.

 

The doctor did give him a cough suppressant, which he had immediately tucked away inside a leather pouch and decided to save for when his coughing gets too hard to handle. If Dr. Green was right, which John is certain he was, then the end of this is going to be real painful and he’s going to want to be drugged for it.

 

He manages, for a while. The other members of the gang ask what’s wrong with him, but neither he nor Abigail ever says anything. Dutch never asks, probably because he always seems to know everything he needs to know. John halfway suspects that he figured it out somehow, but Dutch doesn’t bring it up and John keeps his mouth shut, except when he’s coughing.

 

On the way back from a successful stagecoach robbery, bags stuffed with cash and gold, John rides into camp and hears Abigail screaming.

 

He doesn’t need anyone to tell him why.

 

\--

 

When John was 18, he got into a heap of trouble on a botched heist and got himself arrested. He was pretty sure that the sheriff only pushed for hanging because John caught him in the jaw with a fist during the struggle, and mouthed off after that.

 

He was young, then, and angry at himself for being in love with Arthur, so he kept on fighting and killing to make the ache in his chest a little more bearable.

 

There was a lot of time to reflect on that, sitting behind iron bars with nothing else to do.

 

“You’re facin’ the noose tomorrow, boy,” Sheriff Caine said, feet propped up on his desk as he picked bits of dinner from his teeth. He sounded pretty damn pleased with himself, despite the blooming purple bruise on his chin.

 

John looked up from beneath his lanky, unwashed hair and said nothing.

 

“No smart last words? That because you think your gang is gonna come save you?” He laughed. “I’ve got men stationed all over this town. If any strangers so much as blink wrong, they’re gonna have a bullet in their head.”

 

Being in the gang for almost half of his life, he knew that someone would come for him. That was part of being a family of outcasts -- looking out for each other because nobody else would. Nobody got left behind if there was a way to save them.

 

Some small part of him hoped it would be Arthur.

 

A much larger part of him hoped it would be anyone else.

 

Even so, it couldn’t be Arthur that saved him. He wasn’t part of this heist. Instead, he was off on his own, scouting out a homestead per Dutch’s orders. It wasn’t likely that Arthur was even back yet.

 

Without the prospect of Arthur saving him, suddenly John’s outlook seemed a little bleaker.

 

Sheriff Caine got up from the desk and walked over to the jail cell. He tossed something at John that hit him right in the face and fell into his lap -- a chicken bone, picked clean. “Your last meal,” he said, with a particularly pleased smile stretched across his bruised face. “Eat up. Go on.”

 

He laughed all the way back to his desk and spent the rest of the night talking about how much he was going to enjoy killing anyone who came to John’s rescue.

 

John decided then that if he did make it out of the noose, he was going to put a bullet through each of this man’s knees and watch him writhe in agony for a while before putting a bullet in his head.

 

He wasn’t completely in his right mind, back then.

 

Everything burned too hot inside him -- his anger, his love, everything.

 

In the morning, he was marched out to the gallows with a boy even younger than him who had talked with John some and a wanted criminal from another gang who had kept entirely quiet. The three of them stood with their hands bound behind their backs while the charges were read and the nooses were put over their heads.

 

Two dozen people from the town came to see them hang. Not one of them was anyone John recognized.

 

If somebody was going to come for him, they were definitely cutting it close.

 

John swallowed heavily against the rope and looked at the kid beside him, who was shaking and trying to keep himself together. He was going to hang for killing his father, who beat him senseless every day for 14 years. John couldn’t for the life of him remember the kid’s name until his charges were read. Josiah. His name was Josiah.

 

“This your first time?” John asked calmly.

 

The kid sniffled and looked over at him. “First time?”

 

“First time starin’ death in the face.”

 

A look passed over Josiah’s face, then, one that John wished he couldn’t read as well as he did. “No,” he said with a pained smile and stopped trembling. “No, it ain’t.”

 

This wasn’t the first time John had stared death in the face, either. But it was looking a lot like it would be the last one.

 

The hangman got into position and put his hand on the lever. Everything was quiet, then. Anticipatory. John’s heart calmed as he realized that this was it. He was really going to die, and that would be the end. All these people were going to watch his neck snap and his lifeless body dangle from a rope before it was cut down and dragged away to be buried in some unmarked grave somewhere.

 

He’d always known that he would die young, he just hadn’t expected it to be quite this young.

 

John turned his head towards the kid and said, “Hey, look at me.”

 

Josiah had his eyes squeezed shut and he was shaking again, but he complied and opened his eyes to look at John. “You did the right thing,” John said, and he meant it. The only thing he was more certain of was the fact that he was hopelessly in love with Arthur Morgan. “Your daddy shouldn’t have ever laid a hand on you. He deserved to die for what he did and you did the right thing by killin’ him. Now he can’t hurt nobody ever again.”

 

Josiah tilted his head down and started to cry. John knew those tears -- they were tears of relief. He cried the same tears when Dutch saved him from hanging when he was 12 years old. They were the tears of a young man who didn’t have to be afraid anymore.

 

“Hey. Hey, keep lookin’ at me. It’s gonna be alright, kid.”

 

Josiah sobbed, snot and tears running down his lips and chin, and did as he was told.

 

The wanted criminal on John’s other side spat onto the floor of the gallows. “You two are makin’ me sick. I’d rather be dead than listen to this for a second longer.”

 

Distantly, John heard the signal from the sheriff and he held Josiah’s teary gaze. Took his last few breaths. Tried to remain calm for both of their sakes.

 

“It’s okay, kid. It’s gonna be alright. Don’t look away from me.”

 

The floor dropped out from beneath them, and John fell.

 

The rope pulled tight around his neck. He swung there for long seconds, croaking and trying to gasp for air he just couldn’t get, vision blurring.

 

Then, two gunshots cut through the otherwise silent town and John fell face first onto the ground below.

 

Around him, he heard more gunfire and shouting. He took several deep, gasping breaths, and sputtered when he inhaled dirt.

 

Through his haze, he heard someone calling his name. “Marston! Marston, are you alright?”

 

John felt someone kneeling behind him, and he struggled until he realized the person was trying to cut his hands free. He rolled over onto his back, still ready to fight, when he found himself staring up at none other than Arthur Morgan.

 

“Arthur. Shit. You took your damn time.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, but I got you, didn’t I?” Arthur had a grip on one of John’s wrists, probably to keep John from swinging at him in his confusion. “We’re late, I know, but you ain’t got time to lie around and recover right now.” He released John’s arm and pulled out a revolver from the holster on his hip, offering it to him. “Can you shoot? Or am I carryin’ your ass outta here?”

 

John was already in the process of pulling the noose over his head. He spared one glance to look for Josiah, and frowned when he saw the boy’s body hanging above him, neck clearly broken.

 

“Yeah, I can shoot. Gimme the damn gun.”

 

“Good. C’mon, let’s get you home.”

 

John accepted the revolver and Arthur helped him get to his feet. The rest of the gang was holding off the law, giving them time.

 

He never did get to put a bullet in the sheriff. Arthur did it for him as they rode out of town, the hole in Sheriff Caine’s head appearing as quick as John could blink. Then, Arthur looked back to make sure John was still behind him, and grinned.

 

“Keep up, Marston!”

 

It was just one of many times that John realized he was doomed to love Arthur Morgan forever.

 

\--

 

Despite the many horrible things John Marston has done, he thinks one of the best is helping to make Jack Marston.

 

Jack is fragile, and tiny, and wrinkly. He coos and burbles when John holds him, and John knows he’d do anything for this little creature, even die for him. He takes to his son immediately, wanting to spend as much time with Jack as he can manage, and for the first time in a long time, Abigail seems happy with him.

 

They have no shortage of help. Miss Grimshaw is an expert on babies and teaches Abigail everything she needs to know while giving John no small measure of shit when he messes up. Most of the women in camp love Jack and offer to watch him for small stretches of time.

 

It’s the closest things have come to feeling perfect. It’s a shame, honestly, that John is still growing flowers in his lungs and dying.

 

For the first few weeks after Jack is born, John hardly coughs at all. He thinks maybe he’s been able to get over his feelings for Arthur, as stupidly hopeful as that is.

 

Three months after Jack is born, John’s cough returns and gets progressively worse again. He spends more time with his face buried in his handkerchief than he’d like to, but every time he comes back to camp, Abigail still washes it for him and doesn’t say a word about it.

 

John starts to lose weight that he can’t afford to because he just can’t keep anything down. He avoids Arthur as much as he can because it feels like the only thing he can do. Even if he knows it won’t help.

 

He just pretends he doesn’t notice Arthur’s curious stares from across the camp.

 

Close to a year after Jack is born, Dutch forms a group to rob the homestead of a rich family that he’d heard about around town. Heavily guarded with lots of gold stashed in a safe somewhere on the property. The patriarch of the family is going to be out of town on business, making his home a prime target for robbing.

 

John balks a little when Dutch tells him to go along, but he doesn’t dare protest. Dutch is their leader, and he owes his life to the man. He doesn’t want to make trouble when there isn’t any need to.

 

He just hopes he can hold it together around Arthur.

 

\--

 

“What do you see, Marston?”

 

John lowers his binoculars and points towards the house. “Two armed men guardin’ the front door. Looks like two more around back, but I can’t tell for sure. One of them is smokin’ and it looks like he’s talkin’ to someone.”

 

“Alright,” Arthur says, motioning for Bill and Javier to move up. “Looks like two of us should hit the front door and two go around back. Take out the guards outside and then we’ll worry about whoever is waitin’ for us inside.”

 

“Can we do it quietly, you think?” Javier asks.

 

Simultaneously, all three men look at Bill.

 

“What?” Bill huffs. “You don’t think I can be quiet?”

 

“Not if your goddamn life depended on it,” Arthur says, ignoring Bill’s indignant sputtering. “Don’t worry about bein’ quiet. Javier and Bill, hit the two guys in front. When the guys in back realize what’s goin’ on, John and I will take them out. Then we go in together and rob the place.”

 

Javier nods and puts his mask on. Bill grumbles about it but does the same. They both respect Arthur, that much is clear. John doesn’t blame them. Whenever Arthur is taking lead on a job, it feels like they’re going to get it done right.

 

“Alright, let’s make some money.”

 

Javier and Bill go first, creeping through the bushes leading up to the house. John follows Arthur towards the back, waiting for the other two to open fire. John puts his mask on and readies his revolver.

 

“You got somethin’ you wanna tell me, Marston?”

 

Apparently, Arthur decided that now is the time to have a heart to heart.

 

“Like what, Arthur?” John asks, playing dumb even though he knows exactly what.

 

“Like why you look and sound like you’re dyin’ in front of my eyes.”

 

Perceptive. Arthur is so fucking perceptive. It’s really annoying when John wants to keep something hidden from the man.

 

“I’m sick, obviously.”

 

“Sick with what?” Arthur asks quietly, eyes narrowed. “Is it tuberculosis?”

 

If only. At least then John wouldn’t be tormented with knowing that there’s a cure. He could just die in peace, then, as his body failed him, instead of growing sorely tempted to confess to Arthur for the small chance that he might feel the same and fix him.

 

Shamefully, the thought has crossed his mind. He doesn’t particularly want to die, now that he has an infant son and a real family. But he’d rather die knowing that Arthur doesn’t think any less of him, instead of dying knowing that Arthur hates him and feels disgusted by these feelings that John can’t help.

 

“No. No, it ain’t tuberculosis.”

 

Arthur doesn’t get the chance to question him any further. A fight breaks out in the front of the house, and they both rush forward as the two guards in the back of the house start to move towards the front.

 

John puts a bullet in the spine of the guard on the left, and Arthur shoots the one on the right in the back of the head. There’s shouting inside the house, meaning there’s probably guards inside, so they regroup with Javier and Bill at the front door.

 

It takes Bill three well-placed kicks to the front door to bust it open.

 

“This is a robbery! Anyone who surrenders peacefully gets to go on livin’!” Arthur hollers, revolver poised to shoot.

 

“Arthur!” John shouts, ducking for cover behind a door frame. “From the kitchen!”

 

Javier already has them covered, dual pistols flashing as he guns down the man coming through the kitchen door. Bill charges up the stairs, pumping a shotgun round into the chest of a man rushing down towards him.

 

“John, help Bill clear out the upstairs,” Arthur says, waving him on as he joins Javier in searching the downstairs for any stragglers.

 

John hurries up after Bill and finds him trying to kick open a locked door. It takes him three or four tries before he’s panting.

 

“Gettin’ tired already?” John asks.

 

“Shut your damn mouth, Marston,” Bill snaps, going back to kicking the door.

 

John leaves him to it, checking the other rooms. All of the open rooms including the largest bedroom seem empty, from what he can tell. Maybe this guy doesn’t have a family or took them with him. That’s always preferable to finding some unarmed rich civilians and having to hold them hostage while they ransack the house.

 

He’s checking in a crawlspace when he hears the _click_ of a gun and feels the barrel press to the back of his head.

 

“Don’t move.”

 

John doesn’t move. It’s a female voice -- probably the lady of the house if he had to guess. He has no idea where she was hiding.

 

“Drop your weapon.”

 

He sets his revolver on the floor nice and slow, careful not to make any sudden moves. For good measure, he raises his hands in a gesture of peace. He doesn’t feel any tremble in the barrel. Whoever she is, she’s got a steady hand.

 

“Let him go, Miss.”

 

John can’t see Arthur, but he shudders in sheer relief at the sound of his voice.

 

“Why would I do that?” the woman asks, her tone angry and spiteful.

 

“Because two of my friends have your young son in the hallway, and if anythin’ happens to my friend there, both you and your boy will die tonight,” Arthur rumbles, the deep timbre of his voice making him sound incredibly reasonable, even when he’s threatening someone. “It’s your choice. You can let him go and we’ll leave quietly after we take what we came for. Or you can kill him and your son will be next. Then you.”

 

John knows how much Arthur hates to kill women and children -- it takes extreme circumstances for him to go that far. Apparently, John being held at gunpoint counts as an extreme circumstance.

 

The woman is silent, and for the first time, John feels the gun quiver.

 

“You can die for nothin’ or you can go on livin’. Make your choice.”

 

Out in the hall, a small voice cries out. John knows that Bill wouldn’t hurt the kid, not when he’s under Arthur’s direct order not to, but he probably shook him up for effect. It does the trick. The woman sighs and lowers her gun, and John turns around in time to see her hand it to Arthur.

 

“You’re all disgusting, low-life thieves,” she says, looking up at Arthur. “Take me to my son.”

 

“Javier,” Arthur calls, and Javier appears in the doorway moments later, “you and Bill escort this nice lady and her boy to the kitchen. Keep an eye on them while John and I look for the gold, and don’t hurt them unless they try somethin’.”

 

“Of course. This way, Miss.”

 

Once Javier and Bill are headed down the stairs, Arthur gives John a look that he can’t really interpret.

 

“She was really gonna blow my brains outta my skull,” John laughs weakly, rubbing at the back of his head where the gun had been pressed. He already knows he’s going to die from Blooming Lung, but he’s certain if Arthur hadn’t shown up the lady of the house would’ve claimed that honor.

 

In a way, by saving him, Arthur is actually killing him. The irony of that is pretty funny to John, in a screwed up sort of way.

 

“What brains?” Arthur grumbles, offering John a hand up. “I leave you alone for two minutes and you get yourself held at gunpoint. What were you thinkin’, Marston?”

 

John doesn’t answer, just reaches out to take Arthur’s offered hand. The moment their hands touch, the overwhelming urge to cough wells up in John’s throat and he lets go, scrambling for the handkerchief in his pocket.

 

He can’t do this, not in front of Arthur. _Arthur can’t know_.

 

He’s too late. Blood and petals come up immediately, spattering onto the floor. John heaves and coughs until his eyes are watering, and when he thinks he’s done, another coughing fit starts. He can only try to breathe in between harsh coughs, but the petals get stuck in the back of his throat and he has to shove his fingers into his mouth to pull them out.

 

The worst part is that John can feel Arthur’s eyes on him.

 

When it finally ends, John stays on his hands and knees, blood dripping from his lips and tears running down his face. The evidence is clear as anything on the floor in front of him.

 

He waits for Arthur to say something. Anything.

 

“Come on, Marston.” Arthur rests a hand on his back, between his shoulders. John shivers and tries not to lean away from his touch. “Let’s get you cleaned up and head back to camp.”

 

“The gold,” John rasps, wiping blood off his mouth with the back of his hand. He can’t be the reason that they failed a job. He can’t.

 

“The safe is in the kid’s room.” Arthur puts his hands under John’s arms and hauls him up. John goes willingly because he doesn’t know what else to do. “We’re not goin’ back empty-handed. And I don’t think Javier and Bill are gonna have any problems keepin’ a woman and a child hostage for a couple of extra minutes.”

 

Arthur leads John to the bathroom, where he leans John against the sink and snags a cloth from a rack nearby. There’s a basin filled with water there already. He dunks the cloth into it, gets it soaked through, and then wrings it out.

 

John reaches for it, expecting Arthur to hand it over so he can clean himself up.

 

He doesn’t expect Arthur to dodge his hand completely and start wiping at John’s face.

 

“What are you doin’?” John asks hoarsely, flinching under Arthur’s touch.

 

“Takin’ care of you,” Arthur explains, in that patient way of his, and he turns the cloth to the clean side as he starts on the other side of John’s mouth. “You used to not mind, but then you grew up and started gettin’ made fun of for it.”

 

John’s heart sinks. He wants to correct Arthur -- tell him that he only started to mind because he fell in love. But what goddamn good would it do?

 

He sits there, still as he can be while Arthur cleans his face, and waits for him to bring up Blooming Lung. Waits for him to ask why he hasn’t confessed to whatever girl he’s in love with. Waits for him to ask why Abigail isn’t enough.

 

Arthur never does ask any of those things. He’s quiet the entire time, until he’s satisfied that John’s face is clean. Then he drops the cloth into the basin and nods his head towards the door. “Help me with the safe.”

 

John nods dumbly and follows Arthur’s lead.

 

What else can he do?

 

\--

 

They make it back to camp sometime before dawn. It takes all of a few minutes after they get back for John to make his decision.

 

It’s not an easy one. But then again, nothing in John’s life has been easy.

 

He takes a third of his share of the loot from the robbery and stuffs it away in his bag, along with a few other essentials. The rest he puts into his stash in the tent, where Abigail can find it easily. Abigail and the baby are sleeping peacefully, and he kisses Jack’s forehead first. It’ll be better if he disappears, for Jack’s sake. Nobody will know what happened to him, and he’ll just have an absent father, instead of a lovesick fool of one.

 

He kisses Abigail next, just barely ghosts his mouth over hers so he doesn’t wake her up.

 

When he pulls back, her eyes are open. She looks wide awake, like she wasn’t really sleeping in the first place.

 

They stare at each other for long moments.

 

“How long are you gonna be gone this time?” she asks quietly.

 

John swallows. “Until this thing kills me.”

 

Abigail exhales shakily and squeezes her eyes shut. “What about Jack?”

 

“It’s better if he don’t know how his daddy died.” John slings the bag higher on his shoulder. “Tell him whatever you want about me, but don’t tell him about this.”

 

Abigail doesn’t say anything for long moments. Then, she covers her face with her hands and says, “Alright. Go.”

 

John knows what she means -- go, before she changes her mind and tells the gang he’s leaving. Go, before she makes a scene.

 

He doesn’t think twice or look back, heading out of the tent and whistling for his horse.

 

He’s gone before sunrise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll fix it! I promise! I don't do unhappy endings. Just ambiguous ones sometimes. If you'd like more, tell me nice things! It's free and motivates me to write more, faster. It's a win-win.
> 
> I'm Dormchi on Twitter. Come say hello!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“He ain’t plannin’ on comin’ back, is he?”_
> 
> _Abigail doesn’t answer, because Arthur knows the answer to that question, too. She can see it in his face, hear it in the way he asks._
> 
> _Arthur exhales heavily and runs his hand through his hair. “I’ll bring him back. He can’t have gone that far in a few hours.” He turns to leave, poised to step out of the tent and place his hat on his head once again._
> 
> _“Arthur,” Abigail beckons him, waiting until he turns around and looks at her. “Do everythin’ you can to make sure he don’t die.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I say part 2 would be the happier part? *laughs nervously* More tags have been added, so please read them.
> 
> This completely got away from me and ended up being about 15,000 words, so I split it up into two parts. So you get part 2 now, then part 3 should be coming today or tomorrow at the latest. I just gotta finish one last scene and edit it.
> 
> Thank you very much for all the amazing comments! 18 comments, you guys are wild! I hope I don't make anyone too mad at me with this chapter. The conclusion is coming and it's happy, I promise.
> 
> Thank you to [Ziane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ziane) who did a beta read for me and was honestly so helpful. <3 Bless you, my sweet friend.

There was nothing that Abigail could have said to make John stay.

 

She lies there for a while after he leaves, running through the possibilities in her mind until Jack starts to cry. Like most mornings, she rises with the sun to feed and change him. While she does, she still entertains the thought, as impossible as it is.

 

No matter what she imagines herself saying to him, she can never imagine John staying; when John wants to leave, he leaves. That’s just the kind of man he is, and she’s been aware of that for as long as they’ve known each other. There isn’t any combination of words she’s found that stops him from running away.

 

She was hoping that having Jack would make things different, but apparently not.

 

She looks down at Jack after he’s clean and fed, and studies his chubby face. He blinks up at her and reaches for her with his tiny fists, and Abigail sees so much of John there that she can’t help but smile.

 

She knows that John suspects that Jack isn’t his. She’s heard him say so, even though she wasn’t meant to. But he couldn’t be more wrong about that.

 

The bow of his mouth. The shape of his eyes. The slope of his nose. The crooked smile, especially. Jack Marston is the spitting image of his father.

 

John has to have seen the same things that she did. Why was that not enough to stop him from leaving?

 

“What do you think, Jack?” she asks, offering him her finger. He wraps his fingers around it and burbles at her happily. “Yeah, you know who your daddy is just as much as I do, don’t you? He’s a bastard, ain’t he?”

 

Jack squeezes her finger and coos, his brows knitting together.

 

“I know. We’re not gonna let your daddy give up. We’ll figure somethin’ out.”

 

It feels safe to admit it out loud to Jack. She certainly won’t admit it to anyone else. Nobody else needs to know that she’s spent the last year worrying herself sick over what was happening to John, unable to do anything about it due to the man’s stubborn nature. She has no intention of letting him die alone -- she just needs to figure out her next move, quick.

 

She’s buttoning up her dress over her bust when she hears someone clear their throat outside of the tent. “Abigail?” Arthur calls after a moment. “You in there?”

 

Abigail does up the last button and pulls her hair back into a loose bun. “Come in, Arthur.”

 

Arthur pushes past the flaps of the tent and removes his hat as he enters. He seems uncharacteristically tense and worried, but Abigail doesn’t ask what’s wrong. She doesn’t need to, because she can see it all over his face. “Where’s John at? His horse is gone.”

 

They stare at each other for a few moments. Abigail wonders if the next step to saving the man she loves just waltzed right into her tent.

 

“He left, Arthur.”

 

“Left? Where’d he go?”

 

“I got no idea. Took off before the sun came up.”

 

Arthur’s grip tightens on his hat, and he looks away, towards where Jack is kicking his legs and making happy little sounds. He always does when Uncle Arthur is around. “Did you know that he’s got Blooming Lung?” he asks, keeping his voice down for good reason. There are plenty of nosey people in camp and they really don’t need someone overhearing.

 

“Of course,” Abigail admits, keeping her voice just as quiet. “He’s god awful at hidin’ anythin’, you know that. When’d you find out?”

 

“That job we just got back from. He started coughin’ up blood and flower petals.”

 

Oh. Abigail is honestly surprised that John managed to keep it a secret from Arthur for so long. John and Arthur are incredibly close, she knows that well enough, and she can’t imagine that something so obvious would’ve escaped Arthur’s notice for so long unless John was really trying to keep it hidden.

 

She wonders if that’s what spooked John and caused him to run: the prospect of Arthur talking sense into him and making him confess to whoever he’s in love with to maybe save his foolish life.

 

Honestly, if anyone has a chance of talking sense into John, it’s Arthur.

 

“I need to ask a favor of you, Arthur.”

 

Arthur looks at her, brow furrowed.

 

“Find John and bring him home.” She pauses, carefully considering her words for a few seconds. “I watched Blooming Lung kill a girl once. It was horrible. She didn’t make it a year, and John’s had it for longer than that. He probably only has days, maybe weeks left.”

 

“He’s had it for more than a year?” Arthur asks, clearly surprised by that fact.

 

“Just before Jack was born.”

 

There’s something there, in Arthur’s face. Something that Abigail can’t quite name. Then, he looks like he’s realized something, but she doubts he’ll tell her what it is, judging from how soon the look is gone.

 

“You sure he didn’t run off to confess to whoever it is that made him sick?” Arthur seems like he already knows the answer to that, but is hopeful that he’s wrong.

 

Abigail shakes her head. “I don’t think so. I told John to confess when I found out, and he still has Blooming Lung a year later. Besides, when have you known John to do the smart thing?”

 

“Never.”

 

“Exactly.”

 

“He ain’t plannin’ on comin’ back, is he?”

 

Abigail doesn’t answer, because Arthur knows the answer to that question, too. She can see it in his face, hear it in the way he asks.

 

Arthur exhales heavily and runs his hand through his hair. “I’ll bring him back. He can’t have gone that far in a few hours.” He turns to leave, poised to step out of the tent and place his hat on his head once again.

 

“Arthur,” Abigail beckons him, waiting until he turns around and looks at her. “Do everythin’ you can to make sure he don’t die.”

 

 _Even if that means forcing John to confess his love for someone else_ goes unsaid.

 

\--

 

When Abigail first joined the gang, she knew that she would have to earn her place there. Unfortunately, the only skills she thought she had to offer at the time were pleasing men and pickpocketing those same men when they passed out drunk -- figuring out what amount of money they wouldn’t miss. She guessed the latter wouldn’t go over very well, so she stuck to the former.

 

It was misguided, but she wanted so badly to be accepted. More than anything, she didn’t want to go back to where she came from.

 

So, she slept with any man in camp who would have her.

 

And eventually, she fell into bed, so to speak, with Arthur Morgan.

 

Arthur made love like he was trying to forget someone, but he wasn’t unkind about it like most men. He took his time, did his best to make sure it was pleasurable for the both of them. Abigail couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept with a man and truly enjoyed herself before Arthur Morgan.

 

After it was over and done with, Abigail realized with some surprise that she didn’t _want_ to leave right away. That was definitely a first. As she laid there with the blanket pulled over her, wondering if she should leave anyway, Arthur reached over to dim the lantern and said, “I don’t snore too loud.”

 

Arthur turned back towards her, and his handsome smile made up her mind. There wasn’t anything else keeping her there. No threat of violence, no offer of anything in return, no sense of obligation.

 

“How would you know if you snore too loud or not?”

 

“I suppose I wouldn’t,” Arthur admitted as he laid down again. He slept with his back to Abigail, giving her room to leave whenever she wanted. She never told him so, but she appreciated that small courtesy most of all.

 

She curled up with her forearms pressed to Arthur’s back and fell asleep in moments.

 

In the morning, she woke up from the soundest sleep she’d had in a while to find herself alone. She sat up and rubbed at her eyes, then looked around the tent as she waited for Arthur to return. When it became apparent that he wasn’t coming back anytime soon, she went against her own rule and found herself searching around Arthur’s tent for any hints about the man.

 

She had no nefarious intentions -- she just thought Arthur might be the kind of man she could fall in love with, but that was hard when she knew so little about him.

 

There wasn’t much to speak of besides an old leather journal that she found tucked away in the pocket of Arthur’s coat. Abigail hesitated for a minute, wondering if she should put it back. She’d given Arthur no reason to trust her, but she hadn’t given him a reason to distrust her, either. This felt like an irreversible step towards the latter if she got caught.

 

In the end, her curiosity won out.

 

In between the cover and the first page, there was a photograph of a beautiful woman. Looking at her for too long made Abigail’s chest burn, so she flipped past it, taking care not to damage it. The photo, and perhaps the woman in it, were precious to Arthur, that much was obvious.

 

Arthur’s journal was full of his writings from years prior, which were strangely insightful and a pleasure to read, but what truly grabbed Abigail’s attention were his drawings. Arthur seemed to draw whatever he found interesting -- animals, people, buildings. And he was good at it, very good, in fact. The more Abigail looked through the journal, the harder it became to put it back where she’d found it.

 

The first drawing she encountered of John was one where he must’ve been 17 or 18. A portrait drawn while he was smiling.

 

Abigail’s breath caught at the amount of detail. She’d only spoken to John a handful of times since joining the gang, and it had always been curt and polite. She assumed from their brief interactions that he wasn’t interested in having much to do with her, so she’d kept her distance.

 

In Arthur’s drawing, she felt like she was seeing John in a completely different way, and it made her curious if there were more drawings like it.

 

And oh, there were. As she flipped through the journal, it didn’t escape Abigail’s notice that drawings of John outnumbered anyone or anything else by far, and while she’d never had an eye for art, she could tell some real care went into portraits of John Marston.

 

John only got more handsome in each drawing, and in each one he seemed to be a little older. A little more scarred. A little more beautiful.

 

Looking at those drawings of John Marston felt like falling in love through someone else’s eyes.

 

Abigail was starting to read one of Arthur’s entries about a stagecoach robbery gone wrong when she heard someone clear their throat in the front of the tent.

 

Her heart sank into her guts when she looked up and saw Arthur standing there, a steaming cup in each hand, watching her.

 

“I’m sorry, Arthur, I shouldn’t have--”

 

“Don’t be, it’s fine,” Arthur said with a slight shrug of his bare shoulders, apparently unbothered by the fact that Abigail had clearly rifled through his things. “They ain’t particularly good or interesting, but you’re welcome to look at them.”

 

He closed the flap of his tent and joined her on the cot, leaving a respectful amount of distance between them, and offered her one of the cups of coffee he’d carried in with him. She balanced his journal in one hand and accepted the cup with the other, still feeling uncertain of the whole situation after being caught red-handed.

 

“It’s too early for anyone else to be up, so I had to make the coffee. Apologies if it tastes like dirt.”

 

“No, it’s… it’s fine, I’m sure.”

 

It was fine, except her nerves wouldn’t calm and so she couldn’t really taste or enjoy the coffee at all. She hadn’t been caught in a long time -- she’d learned well from that mistake and the scars it left on her. Everything in her was telling her to drop the journal and run, try to make it outside, and then avoid Arthur Morgan forever. Even patient, kind men could be cruel, sometimes.

 

Still, she didn’t move.

 

After several long moments, Arthur made a thoughtful noise and gestured towards the journal.

 

“John ever tell you about that job?” he asked.

 

Abigail shook her head. “No. We don’t talk much.”

 

“Well, we got a tip on a stagecoach carryin’ payroll through the middle of nowhere. Easy enough. It was just John and me, since there weren’t nobody else available at the time.” Arthur sipped at his coffee loudly and continued, “We’re ridin’ to the place that this stagecoach is supposed to be when John’s horse gets real spooked by somethin’ and throws him, then takes off full gallop towards who knows where.”

 

Abigail could immediately tell that something about the way Arthur told stories was captivating. Maybe it was the low rumble of his voice, or the soft smile on his face as he remembered. Whatever it was, Abigail relaxed just a little and skimmed through to the part in the journal entry where Arthur mentioned John’s horse throwing him.

 

_Watching Marston shout for his horse ‘til he was red in the face was the second best part of the entire day._

 

“Did you go after his horse?” Abigail asked, a smile creeping onto her face despite her nervousness.

 

“Didn’t have time. We were already gonna be late.” Arthur scrubbed his hand over his chin and laughed. “He rode with me and we robbed the coach, but not without some resistance. A bullet grazed John’s leg, and when we opened the door, a man inside stabbed him in the shoulder.”

 

“Jesus, was he alright?”

 

“Oh, he was. Neither were fatal or particularly serious, they just pissed him off. And then when we looked for the payroll, it weren’t nowhere to be found. Turned out it wasn’t even the right stagecoach. The payroll stagecoach never showed up.”

 

That was just one of the stories that Arthur told her. They continued on talking just like that for hours, and gradually, Abigail relaxed and started to enjoy listening. Arthur had quite a few stories that he’d written about in his journal, and he gently took it from her so he could flip through and find the right page, then handed it back. During some of his stories, he had Abigail laughing so hard that she had to cover her mouth to smother the sound, so as not to wake the whole camp. During others, she was solemn as she listened to him remember things that went horribly wrong and people who were lost to him as a result.

 

Long after the coffee was finished, it became apparent that Arthur Morgan might never run out of stories. Not that day, anyways. But eventually they fell into a comfortable silence, one where Abigail could tell that Arthur wanted to say something, he just wasn’t sure of how to go about it.

 

“What is it, Arthur?” she asked, resting a hand on his thigh.

 

“You don’t have to keep on like this, you know.”

 

“Like what?”

 

Arthur tilted his head to look at her. “Like the only good thing you have to offer is your body. It ain’t true.”

 

It wasn’t the first time a man who meant well had said that to her. But for some reason, this was the first time she was inclined to believe it. Because Arthur Morgan was the one who said it.

 

Perhaps it was also because she wanted so badly for it to be true.

 

“What else would I do to… earn my place?” she asked, quietly. In all her life, she’d never known anything else, but she was willing to do it, whatever it was.

 

“Most of the other girls have Miss Grimshaw put them to work. And they come on jobs when it suits them. That’s more than enough.”

 

“That might be a problem. Miss Grimshaw don’t like me very much.”

 

“You let me talk to her. I guarantee you Miss Grimshaw will like you just fine.”

 

With Arthur’s promise giving her hope, Abigail felt her outlook was brighter than it had been in her entire life, and that was worth more than Arthur would ever know. They made simple conversation for a little longer until Dutch came to Arthur’s tent looking for him. Arthur didn’t make Abigail leave, nor did he call her out -- he just exited his tent and closed the flaps behind him, the sound of his voice and Dutch’s getting quieter the further they moved away.

 

She took the opportunity to dress properly and try to tame her hair into something not so obvious. As an afterthought, she grabbed the journal, which had been left open on a very recent drawing of John, with the intention of putting it back where she found it.

 

Abigail stopped as she read the sentence scrawled underneath the picture.

 

_When am I gonna stop wishing things were different?_

 

There was no other writing to indicate what Arthur meant. The pages before and after it were filled with drawings of animals and flowers.

 

She was curious about it, but she didn’t want to snoop any more than she already had. Carefully, she closed the journal and slid it back into Arthur’s coat pocket before she left.

 

After that day, her life changed for the better. Arthur must have kept his promise because while Miss Grimshaw had completely ignored her before, she started putting Abigail to work around camp. It was hard work, much harder than lying there while a man took his pleasure from her for a few minutes, but she felt satisfied with herself at the end of each day because she’d worked hard and earned her keep all on her own. On top of working, she started listening for opportunities to participate in jobs, and was thrilled when Arthur suggested her for certain ones.

 

Abigail suspected that Arthur spoke with Dutch as well because nobody brought up her past profession ever again.

 

Looking back, everything was nearly perfect then, thanks to Arthur.

 

If only her foolish heart could’ve loved Arthur, instead of John.

 

\--

 

John doesn’t have any particular idea of where he’s going to go. He just picks a direction, south in this case, and rides for a while. The fact that he’s essentially leaving behind the only family he’s ever had is motivation, strangely enough. He expects the more distance he puts between him and them, the easier it’ll be when he dies his slow, painful death. Easier for them to get over a ghost of a man than one who’s dying in front of them.

 

He intends to find somewhere to die where he won’t bother anyone with his coughing, which is indeed getting more frequent and bothersome the longer he travels. He has to stop his horse several times to have a coughing fit, leaving him feeling dizzy afterward as he tries to catch his breath.

 

Apparently, he’s getting worse.

 

The first town he comes to is on a dusty back road and looks like it has a dozen residents at most, but it has a doctor and that’s where John hitches up his horse. He takes raspy breaths as he enters through the front door, knowing he must look like someone who’s dying -- red eyes, blood crusting around his lips, skin pale and clammy.

 

The doctor is a portly man who looks surprised to be bothered. John imagines he must not see sick people very often when there are barely any people around.

 

He at least has the decency to look somewhat sympathetic when John explains what’s wrong.

 

“Oh, you’re in the final stages of it now, aren’t you?” Dr. Smith comments as he examines the blue handkerchief that John shows him. It’s completely ruined -- not that it matters any. Abigail won’t be washing it for him anymore, so she can’t reprimand him for it.

 

“It wasn’t this bad until this morning,” John says as he balls up the handkerchief and shoves it back in his pocket.

 

“How long have you had Blooming Lung?”

 

“Little more than a year.”

 

John doesn’t like the way that Dr. Smith’s eyes widen. He knows well enough that Dr. Green said he’d last a year, maybe a little longer. The fact that he’s real close to dying isn’t a surprise to him.

 

Dr. Smith dabs at his forehead with his own handkerchief. “My word.”

 

“What is it, doc?” John asks.

 

“You could,” Dr. Smith exhales heavily, a tremor in his voice that sets John a little on edge, “well, my boy, you could die at any moment from heart failure. Or from suffocation. Nobody lives more than a year with Blooming Lung.”

 

“The doc in Good Enough told me I might live a little longer than a year.”

 

“He’s an optimistic fellow, isn’t he?”

 

John gestures to himself. He knows he’s not much to look at right now, but he’s alive, at the very least. “I’m still alive, ain’t I? Damn flowers haven’t got me yet.”

 

“Yes, but they _will_.” Dr. Smith huffs and rises from his desk, the bottom of his shirt riding up a little over his belly, and crosses the room to a locked cabinet. Inside, John can see bottles with cobwebs on them lining the shelves. The doctor returns with a bottle that isn’t labeled, but John can already guess exactly what’s in it. “I don’t want to seem unsympathetic,” he says as he hands the bottle to John. “But I have an impeccable mortality record in this town. Haven’t lost a patient in four years.”

 

John stares at him in disbelief, clutching the bottle tightly in his fist. “Beg pardon, doc?”

 

“You’re going to die, son. At any moment. And I’d rather you not do it in our town.”

 

It’s not that John is surprised to hear it -- on the contrary, in fact, he’s a little relieved. Here is his second opinion, a second doctor confirming that John is going to die. Very soon, in fact. He’s not sure what he was expecting by coming here. Maybe there was some small sliver of hope somewhere deep down that there might be some way out of this. Now, that hope is entirely buried.

 

He doesn’t blame Dr. Smith for wanting to keep a clean record. It’s not real fair of John to ride into their small town and die on their doorstep like this. If he’s being honest, he’s not sure that he wants to die in this tiny shithole of a town, either.

 

He decides then that he’s going to ride until he can’t anymore, and wherever he ends up is going to be the place where he dies. John isn’t too familiar with this neck of the woods, but he imagines he can die in the middle of nowhere or in a town just the same.

 

“I’d hate to burden you with my impendin’ passin’, doc,” John says with a nod and a wry smile. “I’ll be on my way now.”

 

Dr. Smith seems very relieved to be rid of him. He follows John to the door, and John highly suspects that the man is going to lock it behind him so he can’t re-enter. Dealing with one patient seems to have really taken its toll on the man for the day.

 

“How much of this am I s’posed to take, anyway?” John asks with a shake of the bottle before Dr. Smith has the chance to close the door entirely.

 

“As much as you think you need for the pain. Good day.”

 

The door closes and then he hears the quiet snick of the lock sliding into place. John is left standing there, staring at the door for a few long moments, before he slides the bottle into his pouch alongside the one from Dr. Green.

 

He realizes only after he’s ridden away that he never even learned the name of the town.

 

Not that it matters, anyhow.

 

\--

 

John came very close to confessing everything, one night many years ago.

 

He was 19, then, and no less ill-tempered and quick to fight. He’d gone with Arthur to gather information on a very wealthy man who was rumored to have a stash of gold, cash, and jewelry hidden somewhere in a river town called Gravesport, supposedly named for the number of people who drowned in the deceptively calm water and were buried there.

 

Why Dutch chose him for that job, he’ll never know. John would have given money to know what was going through the man’s head, but he would have never asked.

 

It was the week of some kind of town event, which made for the perfect cover. They could blend in with the locals, and as long as they didn’t do anything memorable or noteworthy, nobody would be wise to who they were.

 

Problem was, John was always on edge when he was near Arthur, in those days. His desire was like an itch under his skin that never left him -- he just got used to living with it. But getting used to it didn’t make it easier.

 

Being close to Arthur made it that much harder, and John just couldn’t seem to help getting himself into situations where he was close to Arthur.

 

“What do you mean there’s only one room left?”

 

“I _mean_ they only got the one room left,” Arthur explained crossly, clearly irritated with something. Whether it was with the situation or with John, John couldn’t tell. “Lots of people come into town ‘round this time of year, apparently. They’re booked up.”

 

There was only one hotel in Gravesport, with what looked like no more than a half dozen rooms, so it made sense that it would be fully booked the week of a town event. That was fine. John had slept in a lot of less than desirable places in his life, and they could camp just outside town without too much trouble. A hotel without a vacancy wouldn’t derail their plans too much.

 

“So, that means we’re camping out?” John asked as he started unhitching his horse from the post outside the hotel. “There’s that spot by the river as we rode in that didn’t look too bad.”

 

Arthur ignored him, leaving his horse hitched as he walked back towards the hotel. John stared after him for a moment, then hurried to catch up. As he walked through the doors, something small and metal hit him in the chest, then fell to the floor.

 

A room key.

 

“I’m gonna take a bath,” Arthur called out, and disappeared behind the curtain before John could think of anything to say in response.

 

Feeling numb from the tips of his fingers down to the bottom of his feet, John reached down and grabbed the key. He stared at it for a few moments and only snapped out of it when the innkeeper cleared his throat.

 

“Take a left at the top of the stairs, son. Third door on the right.”

 

John wondered if the dread he felt then was written all over his face, clear as day.

 

The room was what you’d expect from a relatively small town -- sparsely furnished, with a bed, wardrobe, and little else. The fact that there was only one bed didn’t escape John’s notice. He sat down heavily on that very bed and put his head in his hands.

 

How was he going to hold himself together? There was no way he’d be able to sleep in the same bed as Arthur. Something would give away his secret -- the tenseness of his muscles, the rapid pace of his breathing, the frantic hammering of his heart. Arthur Morgan was the most observant man that John had ever known, and if he ever caught a glimpse of the need inside John, it would be all over.

 

John couldn’t take that chance, so he did what he’d always done best -- he ran.

 

He left the room key at the front desk and took off into town on foot. Found the nearest bar and drank his weight in whiskey, alone, while the thought of spending the night lying close to Arthur tormented him.

 

He supposed that instead of running, he could’ve just insisted that he sleep on the floor. He’d slept in _much_ worse places. But even that would have given Arthur too much of a clue, and John was desperate then to keep things the way they always had been.

 

If Arthur knew anything about the desire he’d held in his heart for so long, then John’s life was as good as over.

 

Arthur found him just like that sometime later, stinking drunk and melancholy, slumped over the bartop. Everything was spinning, and John wasn’t sure what to do when Arthur put an arm around him and eased him from his seat. As it turned out, he didn’t need to do anything, because Arthur had everything handled, as usual.

 

“C’mon, time for bed,” Arthur rumbled, his mouth close to John’s ear.

 

Arthur held onto John’s waist with a strong arm and led him towards the door, while John stumbled along obediently, thinking that bed sounded real fine at that particular moment. They had a room with a comfortable place to lie down and sleep, which was all he could really ask for, given how the ground wasn’t holding steady beneath him.

 

“Why’d you run off again?” Arthur asked once they made it outside, so quiet that John almost didn’t catch it. If John didn’t know better, he’d say that Arthur sounded just the slightest bit hurt.

 

“Just had to,” John mumbled in response.

 

“You know you can talk to me about anythin’. Try that next time, instead of runnin’.”

 

If only things could be so easy.

 

He wanted to tell Arthur then, so badly. To ease the burden on his heart, if only for a few moments.

 

The words welled up in John’s throat like vomit: _I love you, Arthur._

 

Then, he leaned away from Arthur and actually threw up.

 

“Oh hell, Marston. Really?”

 

John would have answered if he wasn’t emptying the contents of his stomach into the street at that very moment, heaving until there was nothing left. To Arthur’s credit, he held John up the entire time and didn’t let him fall face first into his own puddle of sick. When he was finished, Arthur stood him upright and wiped at John’s mouth and chin with a handkerchief.

 

How he was able to do all that without falling over was a complete mystery to John.

 

“One foot in front of the other, cowboy. Let’s go.”

 

Everything after that was a blur, and John couldn’t remember any of it no matter how hard he tried. He woke up in bed alone with a pounding headache and a taste like something had died in his mouth, and didn’t see Arthur again until a few hours later when they set out to gather information on their target.

 

John never asked what happened after he blacked out, mostly because he was too scared to know, and Arthur never told him.

 

\--

 

John passes through another town surrounded by sprawling farmland, and stops just long enough to feed and water his horse, and take a healthy swig from the bottle of cough medicine he’d gotten from Dr. Green. It tastes bitter, like eating a mouthful of raw herbs, but he can feel it start to work as he rides out of town. Everything hurts less, which is the most that John could hope for, and when he coughs up blood and flower petals again, he barely feels it.

 

The road splits and John guides his horse to the left, towards a stretch of road that looks like it goes on forever. He takes another swig of medicine, liking the way it blurs and softens the world around the edges, and thinks briefly about Abigail. She’s a strong woman -- he has no doubt that she’ll be able to live on without him. She never needed him, it was always the other way around. Plus, she has the gang and Arthur. Arthur wouldn't let anything happen to her.

 

It’s a shame, though, that he couldn’t have spent more time with Jack. Jack hadn’t done anything wrong, hadn’t chosen to be born, and he certainly hadn’t gotten to pick who his father was. If he did have that choice, he would’ve been a fool to pick John Marston, the man who doesn’t know the first thing about being a father and is going to die at any moment because he loves someone who won’t ever feel the same.

 

He rides for miles down that road without seeing any signs of other people, and his lungs begin to burn as he coughs and coughs harder. Dr. Smith wasn’t wrong, apparently -- he really could die at any moment.

 

As he raises the bottle to his lips again, there’s a voice in the back of his mind, telling him to stop.

 

“Marston! Hey, stop! Marston! ”

 

It sounds an awful lot like Arthur.

 

John tips the bottle back and swallows the rest of it, pleased to find that the taste doesn’t bother him so much anymore.

 

“Marston!”

 

Someone rides up beside him, and John startles when he realizes that it actually is Arthur talking to him. Of course Arthur found him. He always does.

 

What bad timing, showing up when he’s going to die.

 

“Shut up, you ain’t gonna die,” Arthur says gruffly, reaching over to take the reins out of John’s hands. He pulls on them, slowing down his horse and John’s at the same time. “Whoa, girls, whoa. Come on now.”

 

“What’re you doin’?” John mumbles, suddenly feeling very tired.

 

“Gettin’ you off that horse so I can kick your ass.”

 

He probably deserves that, all things considered. Then again, what right does Arthur have to inflict more suffering on him, right up until the very end? John is already paying the ultimate price for loving Arthur, what fucking more does he want?

 

Arthur makes good on his word. He guides both horses off the road and to a stop, and before John realizes it, he’s being pulled off of his horse. It’s not a graceful descent, not by any means, but it feels a little better to be on solid ground again.

 

“Why couldn’t you just let me die in peace?” John asks, looking at Arthur and steadying himself with a hand on his horse. “Haven’t I earned that, Arthur?”

 

John knows he’s said the wrong thing, judging by the murderous look on Arthur’s face.

 

“You’re leavin’ behind a good woman who loves you and a baby boy who needs a father.”

 

“Better for them.” John huffs out a laugh and waves a hand at the trees surrounding them. “I either die out here or I die back at camp where they can watch. You tell me, what’s worse?”

 

The wrong things. He’s saying the wrong things, but he can’t stop. John is tired of coughing, tired of feeling, tired of being awake. He’s just so damn tired.

 

Arthur advances on him, fists clenched at his sides. “What the hell are you thinkin’? You have everythin’, _everythin’_ I want, and you’re takin’ it for granted. Throwin’ it away like it’s garbage.”

 

“You want Abigail? Jack? Take ‘em, Arthur. It don’t fuckin’ matter, I’ll be dead soon anyway!”

 

Arthur still hits just as hard as John remembers. There’s only been one other instance in the 11 years they’ve known each other where Arthur punched him, and he doesn’t even remember if he deserved it. This one he definitely deserves. John immediately crumples to the damp ground, landing on his hands and knees, pain blooming in his nose.

 

Blood runs down to his lips and drops to the ground beneath him.

 

It’s not unlike the last time John was on his hands and knees in front of Arthur, except the blood dripping from his face isn’t because of Blooming Lung. But it is because of Arthur.

 

They’re both silent for long moments. John can hear Arthur breathing heavily above him.

 

Maybe, just maybe, Arthur will do him a kindness and kill him.

 

“You seem awfully worried about what’s gonna happen to Jack,” John mumbles, trying to wipe the blood from his lips with the back of his hand and only succeeding in smearing it onto his chin and cheek.

 

“Of course I’m worried about him. I care about that boy like he’s my own son.”

 

John spits blood onto the ground. “Hell, he might be your son.”

 

He tenses up, expecting to be hit again, but it never happens. Instead, Arthur reaches down and rests the palm of his hand on the back of John’s neck. The touch is searing, but John doesn’t try to move away. It might be the last time, so why fight against it?

 

“Why would you give that all up?” Arthur asks quietly. “Why not just tell whoever it is the truth? Give ‘em a chance to save you?”

 

For years, John has kept his feelings for Arthur a secret, because it seemed easier to suffer in silence than risk the chance of Arthur hating him. They grew up like brothers, sons of the gang under Dutch’s guidance, and John couldn’t be the one to taint that. He just couldn’t.

 

But now, why can’t he? There’s nothing left to lose. He’s giving up the woman he loves and the son he has with her. He’s giving up his life. Why shouldn’t Arthur Morgan know that it’s his fault?

 

“Because it’s you, Arthur,” John rasps, loud enough that he knows Arthur can hear him. “Goddamnit. It’s always been you.”

 

The truth is out and there is no turning back. It feels like an enormous weight is lifting from John’s heart.

 

The hand on the back of his neck tenses, but John soldiers on regardless.

 

“When I was young, I wanted to be just like you, and as I got older it turned into just… wantin’ you. I couldn’t stand the thought of you hatin’ me for it, so I never said nothin’ to you about it.” John inhales and exhales shakily, his vision going real blurry around the edges. “But it’s always been you. Always.”

 

Arthur is quiet for a long time. It might not actually be all that long, but it certainly feels like it to John. He’s expecting anger or disbelief, or both. He’s expecting Arthur to walk away and leave him there to die, or put a bullet in his head and call it finished.

 

What he doesn’t expect always seems to be just what Arthur does.

 

“I know.”

 

“You know what?”

 

“I know that you got Blooming Lung ‘cause of me. I know that it’s me you’re in love with.”

 

“What are you…” John exhales a shaky breath, searching for the right words, and eventually settles on, “ _How?_ ”

 

“You told me.”

 

\--

 

Two weeks before John starting coughing up flowers, he confessed his feelings to Arthur.

 

Sort of, just not in so many words.

 

Earlier in the night, they had celebrated a successful heist with a feast. Mr. Pearson had butchered a deer and made an enormous pot of stew that was gone within an hour. Miss Grimshaw and the other ladies brought back fancy baked breads from town, which were also gone within that same hour. When everyone was fed and happy, there was laughter and singing, interspersed with plenty of talk about how soon they’d have enough money to disappear. Soon, they’d be able to put down roots somewhere and really get a chance to live.

 

Arthur liked that line of thinking well enough, but he had a feeling that there was something going on beneath it all. He’d been with the gang for most of his life, at that point, and he’d heard talk of settling down so many times before that he’d need more than two hands to count them all.

 

It never seemed to happen. Something always got in the way and led to them needing more money.

 

He wanted badly for it to happen, so he could see the people he cared about really, truly safe, but he wouldn’t get his hopes up again. So he kept to himself mostly, sitting in a chair just far enough away from the festivities and working his way through a bottle of whiskey. If everything went according to plan, nobody would bother him and he could finish his night in peace.

 

It seemed like it was working just fine until Abigail stomped past Arthur’s chair with John trailing close behind her. He had the look of a man who knew he’d said the wrong thing, and was mostly angry with himself for not knowing the right thing to say afterward.

 

“You’re such a bastard, John Marston!” Abigail hissed, one hand on her belly as she passed by.

 

Arthur took a slow swig from his bottle and watched.

 

“You’re the one who wanted to be with me!” John snapped back. “And then you act all goddamn surprised when you realize the kind of man I am. Guess what, Abigail? I never changed. I’ve always been a bastard, will always be a bastard.”

 

Abigail turned back on him, with fury in her eyes and a hand still protectively laid over her pregnant belly. Arthur supposed that was mostly out of instinct -- she had to know that John would never hurt her or their unborn child.

 

“You got that right. You will always be a bastard.” Abigail’s voice wavered and the hand on her stomach balled into a fist. “What a fool I am for lovin’ you.”

 

John turned away from her and ran his hands through his hair with a frustrated grunt. “Look, I… I know I said the wrong thing. Even if the kid ain’t mine, he _will_ be mine, you know? I’ll take care of him, and you, and we’ll… god, I don’t know. We’ll be a family, even though I don’t know how to be.”

 

Abigail said nothing. John finally noticed Arthur, then, and realization dawned on his face.

 

“She’s gone, ain’t she?”

 

Arthur nodded and pointed with the bottle in the direction that Abigail had gone. “She walked off while you were makin’ your heartwarmin’ speech.”

 

“Goddamnit.”

 

“Have a seat, Marston,” Arthur said, gesturing to the chair beside him. “You should give her some time to cool off.”

 

John looked like he wanted to say no, but he did take the seat next to Arthur after a few seconds of indecision. He reached for the bottle in Arthur’s hand and Arthur passed it to him. Better to not finish the entire thing on his own, he supposed.

 

Arthur didn’t ask any questions or start a conversation, because he knew that John was deep in his own thoughts and beating himself up at that moment. When he was ready, he’d talk to Arthur. If he was ever ready. If not, then Arthur was happy to drink with him in silence.

 

They didn’t get to spend much time together anymore, just the two of them.

 

It took longer than Arthur would’ve guessed for John to start talking. Long enough that he thought John was going to keep quiet and eventually sulk off to sleep somewhere around camp. All of the other gang members had long since retired.

 

“I’ve been in love with someone else,” John started, clutching the bottle tighter in his hand, “for a real long time.”

 

Arthur wasn’t expecting that sort of conversation at all, and he should’ve stopped him, but he was curious. John told him so little in those days, when before he’d told Arthur everything.

 

“He ain’t never been mine, but havin’ this kid is gonna make me lose him completely.”

 

 _Him_. Arthur stared at John for a while, unable to hide his surprise over the fact that whoever John was in love with was a man.

 

Somewhere deep down, he realized he was feeling a bit jealous, too.

 

It’s not that Arthur was jealous of Abigail -- she was a good, kind, brave woman who honestly deserved better than John, but he couldn’t judge, could he? He’d made some questionable decisions for love, more than once.

 

No, he was jealous of whatever man John had fallen in love with, and that needed more examining that he wasn’t ready to do just then.

 

“Have you told... _him_ how you feel?” Arthur asked, keeping his voice quiet.

 

“No. God, no.” John scrubbed his palm over his cheek and took another swig from the bottle. Arthur noticed that it was mostly gone, now, and he hadn’t been the one drinking from it often enough for that to be the case. “I can’t do that.”

 

“Why not?”

 

John turned in his seat and leaned closer, giving Arthur a look that he couldn’t really interpret. The air was heavy between them, suddenly. Charged, like the air before a thunderstorm. “Because,” John mumbled, “what if I tell him and he hates my guts for it? Forever?”

 

_I wouldn’t hate you, if it were me._

 

Arthur must’ve been drunker than he thought he was because the words slipped out without his permission and hung between them for long moments.

 

Then, John kissed him.

 

Leaned over and cupped his hand around the back of Arthur’s neck, and pulled Arthur’s mouth into his.

 

John’s lips were dry, chapped, and tasted like whiskey, and he couldn’t seem to get them aligned just right with Arthur’s. So, Arthur did the thing he’d always done when John needed it: he helped him.

 

He took John’s face in his hands and put their mouths together correctly, exhaling a shaky breath when the hand on the back of his neck tightened its grip. John made a needy sound against his lips that would haunt Arthur’s dreams for weeks after.

 

“It’s you, Arthur,” John whispered, the words mostly lost between them, but Arthur heard them anyway. “Always been you.”

 

That should have been reason enough for Arthur to stop, but he didn’t.

 

It had been a long time since anyone had touched him, let alone kissed him. The last person had been Abigail, a year ago now, and it should have felt immediately wrong that John was the one touching him then. Instead, it just felt familiar and inevitable. He trusted John with his life, had known him for 10 years. This was just one more thing that knitted them together and made them inseparable, along with all the other things they’ve been through.

 

Just another thing to keep safe between them.

 

Another thing to weigh on Arthur’s heart.

 

It took Arthur an undetermined amount of time to come to his senses and realize that not only were they kissing in the middle of camp, where anyone could see, but John was beyond drunk at that point and had just had a fight with Abigail. He wasn’t in his right mind, and Arthur had at least some sense left, so he had to be the one to end this. To set things right, before it ended up costing John more than just a place to sleep for the night.

 

But hell it was difficult not to follow John’s lead, to not tip John’s head back and part John’s lips with his tongue. Warmth bloomed in Arthur’s belly, aching like a bruise, and despite his better judgment, he carried on taking everything that John was willing to give.

 

Until he couldn’t anymore, and pushed John away a little harder than he meant to.

 

“We can’t do this,” Arthur told him, not meaning a word of it, but trying to.

 

The look on John’s face was vulnerable, devastated, and painful to see. In that moment, he looked much younger than his 22 years, and that settled it for Arthur.

 

“Apologize to Abigail. Make things right.” Without thinking, Arthur wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, and John visibly flinched.

 

If Arthur could’ve gone back and done things differently, he would have. But at the time, he had no idea that John might’ve had genuine feelings for him. In his eyes, John was drunk and upset and seeking comfort.

 

He was only trying to make sure that John didn’t lose the same things that Arthur had lost.

 

\--

 

“You were drunk and had just gotten into a fight with Abigail. What was I supposed to think?”

 

John stares at the ground, wanting more than anything for it to open up and swallow him alive. “Hell. I don’t remember that one bit.”

 

“I figured you didn’t,” Arthur says with a long-suffering sigh. “I tried to talk to you about it later on, but you started coughin’, and then I was more worried about you bein’ sick than bringin’ up something that you probably didn’t even remember.”

 

John stays on his hands and knees, letting the damp earth beneath him and the warmth of Arthur’s hand on the back of his neck ground him. “So I did have my heart broken,” he murmurs, almost relieved to know that he isn’t the first person to get Blooming Lung from years of stubborn pining.

 

“You did. You just don’t remember it.” Arthur removes his hand, and John can see it extended towards him from the corner of his eye. It looks fuzzy, like everything else does. “I didn’t make the connection until I saw what you coughed up on the job, and you were already gone when I came to talk to you about it.”

 

Arthur keeps on talking, but John can’t seem to focus on the words anymore. There’s a fog over his mind, and he feels like he’s falling even though he isn’t. Or is he?

 

“Marston? Hey. Hey, you alright?”

 

Maybe he shouldn’t have downed the entire bottle of medicine. He’d be able to listen to what Arthur has to say if he hadn’t. Then again, maybe Arthur won’t mind if he falls asleep. After all, he’s been sick for so long that it seems like he’s earned some rest.

 

“Hey.” Warm hands cup his face and raise it. “Hey. Stay with me. What was in that bottle?”

 

“Bottle?” John slurs, trying his best to keep his eyes open.

 

“The bottle you were drinkin’ from when I rode up. What was in it?” Arthur’s voice sounds urgent, for some reason. John wants to tell him, but he can’t seem to get the words out -- that it’s alright, because the bottle had medicine in it. He got it from a doctor, so it can’t be all that bad.

 

“Answer me. What was in the bottle?”

 

John wants to answer, he really does, but he doesn’t have control of his mouth or much of anything else anymore. There’s darkness creeping at the edges of his vision, and he can’t think of much reason to fight against it, except that Arthur wants him to.

 

“John! Stay awake, goddamnit.” Even Arthur’s voice is far away, though it shouldn’t be. He’s right there, holding John’s face in his hands. “John! Hey! Listen to me!”

 

John does his best, for Arthur, but he just can’t keep his eyes open.

 

Everything is quiet and dark, after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, sorry. I'm diligently working on the ending, it's almost done! And it's gonna be happy, I swear!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _John wakes in fits and starts, and is only awake for brief moments._
> 
> _He hears voices. Most of them he doesn’t know. Sometimes, he hears Arthur, and he wants to say something to him, but he’s never awake long enough for that._
> 
> _When he finally is awake long enough to make out what the voices around him are saying, he lies there and listens._
> 
> _It feels real good to hear Arthur’s voice when he didn’t think he’d ever hear it again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the end of my self-indulgent Hanahaki fic. <3
> 
> Thank you to Ziane again, who beta read this for me and was overall just a really great cheerleader.
> 
> And thank you to everyone who left really nice comments! I can't tell you how much that means to myself and to writers in general, to know that people enjoy our work. Thank you so, so much.

John wakes in fits and starts, and is only awake for brief moments.

 

He hears voices. Most of them he doesn’t know. Sometimes, he hears Arthur, and he wants to say something to him, but he’s never awake long enough for that.

 

When he finally is awake long enough to make out what the voices around him are saying, he lies there and listens.

 

It feels real good to hear Arthur’s voice when he didn’t think he’d ever hear it again.

 

“The bottle he drank out of was labeled, at least. Heroin-Hydrochloride. A fairly low dose, too.” The voice pauses and there’s a dull clinking noise. “He’s lucky he didn’t choose the other one. I can’t tell for sure, but it smells and,” another pause, “ugh, tastes like laudanum. He’d certainly be dead.”

 

“Thanks, doc. For saving him.”

 

“My boy, I didn’t do anything except give you a bed to lay him on and a sympathetic ear.” The man who must be the doctor laughs. “You didn’t give me much choice when you kicked my door in and threatened to shoot me if I didn’t help your friend.”

 

“Yeah… sorry ‘bout that. I’ll fix the door properly for you.”

 

“There’s no need right now -- it’s holding together alright. Just stay by his side and wake me up if anything changes, though there won’t be much I can do. He’ll have to decide that he wants to live.”

 

“Mm.”

 

There are some footsteps, then, and the sound of a door closing. Arthur sighs loudly, and John can tell that he’s close by. It’s what makes him fight to open his eyes, to say something.

 

The words are thick and syrupy in his throat, but he manages somehow. “Why are you always savin’ me, Arthur Morgan?”

 

It comes out slurred and not at all sounding like he means it, but it doesn’t matter because in a second, Arthur is there. A warm hand on John’s arm, leaning over him as John opens his eyes. Everything is blurry, including Arthur, but John is so goddamn glad to see him, regardless.

 

“Someone has to,” Arthur says as he squeezes John’s arm. “Are you really awake or are you dreamin’ again?”

 

John grimaces as he realizes that he _hurts_ , not any one place in particular, just all over. He squeezes his eyes shut and groans. “Hurt too much to be dreamin’.”

 

“Yeah, doc said that would be normal.”

 

“How long have I been out for?” John asks, blinking repeatedly to get the world around him to come into focus. As it does, he can’t help but notice that Arthur looks awful. His skin is pale, eyes bloodshot and hair disheveled. He has dark circles under his eyes like he hasn’t slept in days.

 

“Two days, give or take.”

 

“Christ.”

 

Arthur exhales a heavy breath and sits back in his chair. “Don’t you _ever_ do you that to me again. You hear me? You pull that shit again and I’ll drag you out of the goddamned afterlife and kill you myself.”

 

John swallows loudly and moves to sit up, slowly. He’s sore all over from lying down for so long -- he needs to move around, badly. “Noted. But I’m still dyin’, aren’t I?”

 

Arthur makes a considering noise and crosses his arms over his chest. “No. You ain’t.”

 

“What are you talkin’ about? Of course I am.”

 

John manages to prop himself up against the pillows. At any point, he’s expecting to start coughing again. Sure, Arthur might have saved him from an overdose, but he’s got Blooming Lung and his time is running short.

 

Unless.

 

He looks at Arthur with wide eyes as the man gets up from his chair and takes a seat on the edge of the bed.

 

“ _I love you, John Marston, don’t die on me now_. I think I said it about a thousand times on the way here, and another thousand while you were asleep in that bed.” Arthur’s smile is tired but unmistakably fond. “You must have heard it because the doc said your lungs sound fine for someone who was dyin’ recently of Blooming Lung.”

 

Oh. _Oh_.

 

John briefly pushes the palms of his hands against his eyes. They come back wet. “Arthur, you’re a crazy son of a bitch.”

 

“You’re one to talk, Marston. Never met someone so determined to die in my whole life.” Arthur grabs for John’s hand and squeezes it. He really does look like he desperately needs to rest, but John is glad to have him there. Glad that he’s alive, thanks to Arthur.

 

“We could have saved each other a lot of pain and heartache, but that’s not really our style, is it?”

 

“No. No, I s’pose it ain’t. But now that you’re awake, I have somethin’ to show you.” Arthur reaches with his other hand into the pocket of his coat and pulls out the journal that John remembers seeing many times over the years. It’s thick and leatherbound, and obviously worn and well-loved.

 

John takes it and lays it in his lap, then looks to Arthur.

 

“I folded the corner of all the pages where I drew you over the years.” John gives Arthur a confused look, and Arthur shrugs his shoulders, nonchalant as always. “I didn’t have much to do while I was waitin’ for you to wake up.”

 

The first folded page is a drawing of John when he was 17 or 18 years old -- in the drawing, he’s smiling.

 

It’s better than anything that John could ever draw, that’s for sure. The further he gets into the journal, the better each drawing gets, and there is no shortage of them. There are many portraits of John done through the years, done with great care, that look so much like the real thing that they must have been drawn by someone who knew his face, intimately so, and had seen it every day for years and years.

 

John knows why Arthur is showing this to him -- he wants John to know that his love and appreciation didn’t suddenly form when he found out that John was dying. It had grown over the years, just like John’s own. Maybe not in quite the same way, but close enough.

 

“These are good, Arthur,” John says, brushing his thumb over the cheek of the most recent one -- a carefully done sketch of him lying in this very bed. “Real good.”

 

“Abigail saw all of them a while back. I think they’re the reason she fell in love with you, honestly.”

 

“Hey, I wouldn’t say that,” John huffs, not really offended. “I got my redeemin’ qualities.”

 

Arthur grins at him and says nothing.

 

\--

 

After another check-up with the good Dr. Isaacs, the doctor gives John the best news that he’s ever heard: his Blooming Lung is gone. As far as the doctor can tell, John’s lungs are completely clear and have great capacity again.

 

Arthur fixes Dr. Isaacs’s door properly, as promised, and pays him for his help and the use of the bed. If the doctor managed to come to any conclusions about John and Arthur, John figures the man won’t say anything. Arthur can be pretty goddamn intimidating without really trying.

 

John’s first few breaths of fresh air after spending two and a half days recovering are perfect. He keeps expecting to cough, used to it by now after a year, but it never happens. Each breath is full and clear.

 

They’re in a town that John doesn’t recognize -- a decent sized place, full of people walking up and down the main street and mingling together.

 

Arthur steps up beside him and squeezes his shoulder briefly. “Congratulations on your clean bill of health, Mr. Marston. What are you gonna do first?”

 

“That depends. Whereabouts are we?”

 

“Sparks, I think. Quaintest little town nobody’s ever heard of.”

 

“Do you reckon they have food in Sparks?” John asks, laying a hand over his stomach, which is feeling a little too concave these days. “I’m so hungry I could eat a man.”

 

The silence between them lasts just a beat too long before Arthur clears his throat. “Let’s see what we can find.”

 

They do manage to find food at the saloon in town, which leads to drinking soon after. John feels better than he has in a year, but Arthur looks like he’s wearing down before the sun has even set, and at one point he disappears with a quick, “Got somethin’ to take care of.” Fair enough, John thinks, considering he’d apparently barely slept while John was laid up in bed. That’s to be expected.

 

What’s not expected is Arthur when he shows up later and interrupts John while he’s in the middle of sweeping a poker table of locals for all they’re worth, and getting information on a backroom poker game that’s going down later for _much_ higher stakes. It sounds like a perfect opportunity to rob some idiots blind, right up until Arthur puts a hand on his shoulder.

 

“C’mon, there’s somewhere we need to be,” Arthur says gruffly, nodding his head towards the door.

 

“What are you talkin’ about?”

 

The grip on his shoulder tightens and John has to try very hard not to wince in pain. “Right. Somewhere. Got it.” Carefully, he lays his cards on the table and gathers up his twelve dollars worth of winnings. Every other man at the table looks murderous, like they want to say something about him swindling them and then leaving without giving them a chance to win it back, but they all look understandably cautious of Arthur.

 

They leave the saloon, and Arthur walks him not even twenty feet around the building before he lays into John.

 

Arthur’s expression is incredibly pained and frustrated. “Give me _one day_. Just one.”

 

“ _What_ _are you talkin’ about_?” John repeats incredulously because he truly doesn’t understand why Arthur is upset all of a sudden. “I had those assholes on the hook, thinkin’ I was a young fool with money lookin’ for some real high stakes. We could have robbed the game and been out of town before anyone was wise to it.”

 

He knows he’s said the wrong thing again, as Arthur advances on him with a wild look in his eyes, teeth bared and fists clenched, until John’s back is against the wall of the saloon. His voice, when he speaks, is deep and on the edge of a growl. “I watched you almost die, and not from a bullet wound or Blooming Lung or anythin’ else that I could help. I thought I was gonna have to _bury you_.” He pauses and takes a deep breath through his nose, a visible shiver running through him. “Give me one day. Please.”

 

Where John had been ready to fight back, he instead slumps back against the wall. _Oh_. That’s why Arthur is so angry -- because he watched John nearly die of an overdose, waited two days to find out if he was going to pull through or not, and here John is, already trying to put himself in harm’s way again. Trying to go right back to the way things were, when Arthur is still healing from the fresh trauma of the past few days.

 

It’s not the first time in his life that he’s been completely ignorant of the needs of someone he cares about. Probably won’t be the last, either.

 

“M’sorry, Arthur,” John mumbles, tentatively reaching out to place his hand on Arthur’s chest, over his heart, not caring how intimate it might appear to someone who happens to look between the buildings and see them there. Arthur flinches a little but doesn’t move away. “I wasn’t thinkin’. I’m stupid and impulsive, remember? Anyone’ll tell you so.”

 

Arthur’s chest rises and falls quickly beneath his hand, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he tilts his face down, the brim of his hat obscuring his face.

 

“Arthur?” John tries.

 

Nothing.

 

Arthur is quiet for a long enough period of time that John starts to shift nervously, almost wishing that Arthur would just hit him again instead of giving him the silent treatment. He can take physical punishment just fine -- it’s what he’s been doing his whole life.

 

But instead of hitting him, Arthur grabs the back of John’s neck and kisses him.

 

It’s brutal, at first, and John realizes that Arthur is both punishing him and marking him. Letting him know with bruising force and sharp teeth and the bite of his short nails that John is in trouble, and John is also _Arthur’s_. It’s possessive in a way that burns John deep, right down to his bones, and leaves him gasping when Arthur breaks away.

 

He doesn’t go far -- he just moves the threat of teeth against John’s throat, his breath warm and wet against his skin.

 

It’s then that John realizes Arthur took off his hat at some point and he’s holding it in his other hand, blocking the view from the street of what they’re doing from shoulders and up.

 

“They got a hotel in this town?” John murmurs, chest heaving. The beauty of taking huge breaths and not feeling the need to cough isn’t lost on him, but he’s hard as nails, harder than he’s ever been if he’s honest, and it’s because of _Arthur_.

 

“Already got us a room.”

 

It’s not fair when Arthur lowers his voice to that deep timbre of his, John decides, as every part of him tenses in response. Arthur already had the intention of staying the night in town, and already got them a room. That was where he went when he left John alone. No wonder he was visibly upset when he came back and found John getting into trouble.

 

“Let me guess, you got the last room?” John asks, because he can’t help himself, even when he’s in trouble.

 

Arthur’s smile lets him know that he’s been forgiven.

 

“Yeah, but you’re sleepin’ on the floor.”

 

\--

 

The hotel is at the opposite end of the main street. John’s heart pounds the entire ride there and doesn’t slow even slightly once they walk in the door. The woman at the front desk offers them a bath, assuring them that there’s plenty of hot water and that she has lovely helpers working if either of them wants a deluxe experience.

 

“One of you will have to go first, of course. We only have one tub.” She leans across the counter, covering her mouth so only Arthur can see it, but John still hears her because she doesn’t lower her voice at all. “I think your friend is in dire need of a good scrubbin’. We’ll make sure the water is fresh for you afterward, handsome.”

 

“That’s very kind of you, ma’am,” Arthur says with a subtle tip of his hat and a smile, just as perfectly charming and kind as he always is towards women. Then, he tilts his head towards John, giving him a slow look up and down that makes John’s heart and stomach clench, and his cock twitch. “You heard the lady. Don’t let that hot water go to waste.”

 

John grits his teeth and lays a quarter on the counter. The only reason he doesn’t argue is because he’s been lying in a bed for two days and he’s hard-pressed to remember the last time he bathed before that. He probably could use a good scrubbing, like she said.

 

“Straight through that curtain, last door on the left, sweet boy,” the woman says, pointing the way with a flick of her wrist. John bristles a little at being called _boy_ , but keeps quiet and quickly pushes past the curtain to escape the weight of Arthur’s gaze on him.

 

John hears the woman’s giggling voice carry down the hallway from the other side of the curtain. “He seems _very_ excited to enjoy a hot bath, doesn’t he? Delilah will take great care of him.”

 

He doesn’t hear what Arthur says in return.

 

As promised, in the room at the end of the hall, there’s a large bathtub full of steaming hot water. John closes the door behind him and starts undressing, which is when he gets his first whiff of how he smells, and it’s not great -- a mixture of stale sweat and his unwashed, greasy hair. He’s glad that Arthur said something because he wouldn’t have noticed until it was too late.

 

John’s bath is quick, but he’s thorough, making sure to clean himself well. The knock on the door and the soft, pleasant voice asking if he needs help comes when he’s already halfway through, and he politely declines. He’s still achingly hard, even more so since he’s been trying to ignore it, and there is no hiding it at this point.

 

Once his bath is finished, John dries off and takes a look at himself naked in the mirror. He knows it’s not really there for this purpose, but he uses it for a few moments to really look at himself.

 

He’s skinny, there is no doubt about that. If he leans one way or the other, his ribs show through his skin, and his hips are bonier than he remembers. Being sick for an entire year made him lose the little bit of weight that he couldn’t afford to, and he’s not particularly pleasing to look at now, in his opinion. Just skin and muscle and scars.

 

Still, he’s not quite as skinny as he was when he was 18 or even 19, and Arthur knew him then and apparently liked what he saw, enough to want to draw him. Maybe he’s worrying for no good reason.

 

“At least your cock still works,” John says to his reflection, and puts his clothes back on.

 

Freshly bathed and dressed, he walks out of the room and down the hall. He passes through the curtain and expects to see Arthur, but there’s only the woman from before, standing behind the counter.

 

“You’re in Room 3. Your friend already went upstairs,” she says, giving him a small, polite smile and sliding a room key across the counter towards him. “Let him know that we’ll have his bath ready in 15 minutes.”

 

“Mm, will do.”

 

John takes the key, then heads back inside and up the stairs. He finds the room towards the end of the hallway and is surprised to find it locked, then even more surprised that Arthur isn’t inside. He must’ve gone somewhere while John was in the bath.

 

And still, even without Arthur there, he’s hard. Frustrated, he removes his holster and boots and flops down onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He pushes his hands into his now clean hair and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to convince the ache between his legs to lessen, at least for a little while.

 

John has no idea when or if Arthur ever satisfies his needs. He sleeps with his tent wide open every night, leaving no amount of privacy. John supposes Arthur might find pleasurable company in town, but he’s heard the man decline offers from beautiful women before, so he doubts it. He also knows how hung up Arthur was on Mary, as painful as that is for him to remember.

 

God, how many times over the years has he imagined walking into Arthur’s tent, closing the flaps behind him, and dropping to his knees between Arthur’s thighs?

 

How many times did he lie awake and think about working up his nerve to do just that? Touching himself as he imagined it, skin on fire until he found his release and all that was left was his shame and his love, in equal measure, burning him up inside.

 

There is no harm in letting his mind wander now, he thinks.

 

John bites at the inside of his cheek as he rubs himself through his jeans, imagining the sounds Arthur would make. The sounds he _will_ make if this thing between them leads where John wants it to.

 

He has no problem at all picturing it. The heat and fullness of the cock in his mouth, a large hand fisted tightly in his hair, spurts of come hitting bitter and salty on the back of his tongue...

 

“Sorry to interrupt.”

 

John jumps and scrambles for the gun in the holster on his hip, but stops when he realizes he doesn’t have it on him anymore and that it’s just Arthur that barged in on him, looking some kind of way about the fact that John was just touching himself. John has no idea how long he’d been lying there for, or how long Arthur had watched him.

 

Arthur shrugs and turns around, hand on the doorknob before John realizes he probably looks guilty as hell about getting caught.

 

The note of panic in John’s voice is undeniable. “Hey, stop. Where are you goin’?”

 

“I got another room just next door.”

 

“Well shit, don’t go.” John scrambles up and off the bed, scared for a moment that Arthur might actually leave.

 

“Who were you thinkin’ about?” Arthur asks, his voice kept carefully neutral. He turns around to face John again, and John’s heart skips a beat or two at the heavy weight of Arthur’s gaze on him.

 

“Thought that would be obvious.”

 

Things are quiet, for a moment, before Arthur smiles and locks the door behind him. “Stop lookin’ so worried, Marston. I ain’t leavin’.”

 

John stands by the bed, wondering if his face is betraying just how relieved he feels. If he managed to fuck up this thing between them now, which wouldn’t really be difficult for him to do, he’d never forgive himself.

 

That leaves an interesting situation, however, where John is very obviously hard and Arthur’s eyes don’t miss a thing. John shivers from head to toe under that gaze, searching for the right words to ask for what he wants as Arthur slowly starts to undress.

 

His holster goes first, which he lays over the back of the same chair that John laid his own on. Then, Arthur takes a seat in that chair and pulls his boots off even more slowly, like he’s got all the time in the damn world.

 

He does have all the time in the world, because John would give it to him, and that’s obviously no secret to Arthur.

 

Arthur stops there and stands up, holding out his hands palm-up. He’s wearing the same fingerless gloves he always wears, the ones that drive John completely crazy and always have. “Help me with these,” he says, and like a loyal dog finally given a command, John moves immediately.

 

He undoes Arthur’s gloves at the wrist and pulls one off, then the other. A few times their fingers brush. Something so simple has his heart already racing, making him feel like he’s that awkward 16 year old all over again, fumbling around in the dark while thinking about Arthur Morgan.

 

Unsure, he looks to Arthur for more instruction. Permission. Something.

 

Arthur seems to sense his need because he puts his bare hands on John’s skinny hips and doesn’t stop moving forward until John’s back meets the wall. John finds that he likes that, being put where Arthur wants him; likes the way Arthur’s body brackets his, solid and warm and alive, so much better than anything he’d imagined.

 

He’s never had fantasies about other men. Just Arthur.

 

Now he knows his fantasies never held a candle to the real thing.

 

John pushes back just because he can and nearly whines out loud when Arthur leans harder into him.

 

“This alright?” Arthur asks, his eyes dark as he pushes John against the wall.

 

“Yeah. God, yeah.”

 

John kisses Arthur, this time. Their second kiss is deep and relaxed, despite John’s nerves, just lips and tongues pressing and sliding together. He runs his hands over Arthur’s back, feeling the shape of it through Arthur’s shirt, from his broad shoulders to the dip in the small of it. Arthur makes an encouraging noise, and John grabs at his shirt and pulls it up, humming as his fingertips find warm skin.

 

He doesn’t get to explore like he wants to, though. As soon as John starts sliding his hands upwards, feeling muscle and smooth skin and scars beneath his palms, Arthur pulls John’s hands away and drops to his knees.

 

“What’re you doin’?” John gasps, hands gripping tight at Arthur’s shoulders, unable to help the violent tremor that runs through him at the sight of Arthur kneeling before him. Suddenly, the tightness in his jeans is unbearable.

 

Arthur gives him a heated look as he works at the button on John’s jeans. Once he’s got the button undone, he pulls John’s jeans down to mid-thigh and exposes his cock, which is so red and hard at this point that just the rush of air against it is enough to make John whimper.

 

“Takin’ care of you,” Arthur says, like it’s a plain and simple truth that John should know already, and leans forward without saying another word.

 

The head of John’s cock bumps and slips against the swell of Arthur’s bottom lip, and John’s body comes alive, muscles in his belly straining as he tries to thrust his hips forward. It’s no use. Arthur pins John there with both hands on his hips and pushes him back against the wall as he sucks just the tip into his mouth.

 

John curls his fingers against the short hair at the nape of Arthur’s neck and tosses his head back against the wall. “ _Christ_ , Arthur.”

 

“Hmm,” Arthur hums in response, and slides another few inches of John into his mouth, then pulls off and does it again.

 

To say that Arthur Morgan sucking his cock feels like a near-death experience wouldn’t be too far off, John thinks. He’s caught between the wall and Arthur’s big hands, his vision blurring at the edges with frustrated tears, and his body can’t seem to decide if it wants to relax or jump through the ceiling, so he’s real goddamn tense. Tense and burning alive, pinned there as Arthur takes him again and again, mouthful after mouthful. His hips fight Arthur’s hold, trying desperately to come off the wall when Arthur’s nose bumps against the trail of hair on his lower belly, but he can’t move.

 

He can only take what Arthur gives him, and he likes that more than he probably should.

 

“Arthur,” John gasps, shaking all over as Arthur hums around him again. There’s heat building in his belly, and he digs his fingertips into the side of Arthur’s neck, trying his hardest to warn him, because the words are stuck somewhere deep in his chest.

 

Arthur just takes the full length of him into his throat, heedless of John’s warning, and John twitches and writhes as he comes, the heat and pressure around him unbearable, all the more intense because it’s _Arthur_.

 

“Arthur,” he pants, muscles trembling as Arthur stubbornly swallows him down and holds him there. He keeps sucking until John has nothing left, until he’s shuddering and sensitive and saying Arthur’s name over and over again like he’s begging for his life.

 

Only then does Arthur pull off of him with a wet _pop_.

 

John puts his hands over his face and takes several deep breaths, trying to calm himself. It wouldn’t do any good for him to die from heart failure after Arthur saved him not once, but twice in the past three days.

 

“Tell me,” John starts, letting his hands slip from his face and land back on Arthur’s shoulders. Arthur looks tired but handsome as ever, and his swollen red mouth looks particularly obscene. “Tell me what I can do, Arthur.”

 

“Whatever you feel like doin’,” Arthur says unhelpfully as he gets to his feet. Once he’s upright, he grunts and rubs at his knees briefly. John barely bites back an old man comment, because he knows it wouldn’t be funny or appreciated at this very moment.

 

“I’ve been imaginin’ this for years, but I got no practical experience to speak of. Not with men, anyway.”

 

“Never had a drunken one night stand with a man before?” Arthur asks, a hint of a smile on his face. He says it like he’s speaking from experience and not just teasing, which makes John’s chest burn with an old, familiar jealousy, except this time it’s for someone he’ll never know. Some nameless, faceless body that got to know Arthur before he did.

 

“Never needed to. There was only one man I imagined ever bein’ with if I got the chance.”

 

John really likes the way that the pupils in Arthur’s eyes go dark and wide upon hearing that. Really likes the way he gets both of his hands on John’s hips and walks him away from the wall and back towards the bed.

 

“Why’d you really get the room next to ours?” John asks as Arthur pushes him back onto the bed, his legs falling open to accommodate Arthur’s bulk between them. He wastes no time in getting his hands under Arthur’s shirt again, and this time Arthur doesn’t interrupt him as he pushes it upwards.

 

“So I could sleep there in case this wasn’t what you wanted.” Arthur stays still for a moment, letting John feel him. Once he’s had enough, he leans forward so John can pull the shirt over his head. “And if it was, so I could put you up against that wall without disturbin’ anybody’s sleep.”

 

 _That wall_ is the one that Arthur had pressed him against just minutes ago and-- and--

 

“You went to all this trouble just for me?” John breathes, pulling Arthur down so they’re pressed together, chest to chest. His cock is already hard again between them, pressed between their stomachs, and John rocks up against Arthur with a moan, heart racing as the man presses him down into the bed with his weight in return.

 

Arthur knows him so well that it’s scary, sometimes.

 

“Told you I was takin’ care of you, didn’t I?” Arthur rumbles, his nose bumping against John’s stubbled cheek. He somehow manages to get a hand into the back of John’s jeans and shoves them down towards his thighs, but it becomes quickly apparent that things can’t go much further than that if they don’t separate.

 

Reluctantly, they pull apart. Arthur helps pull John’s jeans down his legs and tosses them away. He spends a little while just looking his fill now that John is fully naked, and John knows he must be red all over, at this point, just from Arthur staring at him.

 

He can’t help but notice, though, that Arthur never once looks disappointed in what he sees, and when Arthur pushes his own pants off, his cock proudly springs free, hard and angry-red and wet at the tip. Not soft at all. John has seen it a few times before in his life, always by mistake and never for more than a few seconds, and it was always soft.

 

“How far?” Arthur asks as he takes himself in hand.

 

John feels his mouth go suddenly and perfectly dry. He props himself up on his elbows, unable to tear his eyes away from where Arthur is stroking himself lazily.

 

He’s never wanted something so badly, all at once, with every bit and piece of him.

 

He just doesn’t know quite how to ask for it.

 

Arthur watches him, still stroking himself nice and slow, waiting patiently. There’s a drop of liquid beading at the tip, and John watches with his breath held as it finally beads up enough to spill over Arthur’s fingers.

 

John shivers all over and squeezes his eyes shut, tilting his chin down towards his chest. “Fuck.”

 

Arthur’s rumbling laugh does all sorts of terrible things to John’s insides. “That’s the idea.”

 

“Don’t make fun of me.”

 

John opens his eyes and finds Arthur’s gaze still on him, soft and amused and understanding. He lets go of his cock and climbs back onto the bed, and John parts his thighs to make room without even thinking. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Arthur drop something onto the bed that he must’ve been holding in his other hand.

 

It’s a tin of gun oil.

 

“I got no particular preference,” Arthur starts, brushing some of John’s hair back and keeping their lower halves separate as he speaks, “but you ain’t done this with a man before, and it don’t quite work the same way. There’s a few ways you might prefer this to go for a first time.”

 

“Which one of those ways gets you inside me?” John asks, enjoying the way Arthur’s breath catches a little in surprise.

 

Arthur shakes his head as he reaches for the tin and pulls off the lid. “You’re still such a mouthy little shit.”

 

“You love it.”

 

“Despite my better judgment,” Arthur says quietly as he scoops out some oil with two fingers. John’s heart skips nervously in his chest. “Spread your legs a little more.”

 

John does so, and his breath hitches as Arthur presses his slick fingers between the crack of John’s ass. He’d imagined this, too, when he was lying alone in his tent, and had slipped a spit-slicked finger or two inside himself. It was never enough -- not enough to fill the spaces inside him or soothe any of the parts in him that ached. But it did give him a little experience and knowledge of what to expect, at least, which he’s grateful for as Arthur pushes the tip of a finger inside him.

 

Arthur leans down and kisses him, muffling John’s moans as he sinks the finger deeper. He takes his time, working John open with that one finger for what feels like forever before adding another and doing the same with two of them, slowly stretching him open.

 

Occasionally, Arthur hits some spot inside him that makes John’s body tremble all over like he’s going to come out of his skin.

 

Even with as good as it feels, John decides it’s taking too long, and he drags Arthur’s head down so he can put his mouth to the man’s ear, breath rushing hot between his parted lips. “Don’t be tender with me, Arthur. That ain’t what I need from you.”

 

Arthur understands. John knows he does. He knows because Arthur removes his fingers without hesitation, and reaches again for the tin of gun oil. John grabs it before he has the chance, and dips his fingers in, making sure there’s plenty of it.

 

“Ain’t gotten a chance to touch you yet,” John explains, and reaches between them to wrap his hand around Arthur’s cock.

 

The sound that Arthur makes is probably the best thing that John’s ever heard -- a deep, hungry growl that he feels all the way into his bones. John takes his time slicking Arthur up, because it’s only fair, working his hand up and down the length of him in firm strokes.

 

There really is a lot of him, John realizes. He hopes it’s going to fit.

 

“Ready?” John asks quietly, unsure of whether he’s asking Arthur or himself.

 

“Hang on to me and relax,” Arthur whispers, and positions himself, the head of his cock pressed to John’s hole. John scrambles to wrap his arms around Arthur’s shoulders, just in time for the man to slide into him just barely.

 

“ _Jesus Christ_.”

 

The feeling of fingers stretching him open was nothing like this. Tears well up, heavy and insistent at the corner of John’s eyes as he takes deep breaths and tries to relax, knowing that he’s causing himself more hurt by fighting it. To his credit, Arthur doesn’t move, staying perfectly still with just the head of his cock buried inside John’s body, giving him the time he needs to adjust.

 

When John finally manages to convince his body to relax, he digs his nails into Arthur’s shoulders and nods his head, hoping that Arthur gets the message.

 

Arthur pushes his hips forward, sliding in a little more, making them both shiver. He goes slow, just like he did with his fingers, until he’s buried as deep as he can be. John realizes that it feels strangely good, being so full and knowing that it’s Arthur inside him, making him feel that way.

 

“Arthur.”

 

“Mm.”

 

“Move, damnit. Please.”

 

Arthur does. He pulls out slowly and pushes back in, gradually increasing the speed of his thrusts. Arthur’s gun-calloused fingertips scratch against his skin, and John holds onto him for dear life, little whines and moans punched out of him every time Arthur fucks into him.

 

On one particularly sharp thrust, Arthur leans in, stretching John wide around him, his short nails biting into John’s hips. He presses his mouth to John’s ear, growls into it, “Where did you think you could go that I wouldn’t find you and bring you home?”

 

The words tear through John like a bullet, stealing his breath. He can’t think of anything to say, because he doesn’t know what he was thinking by trying to run from this. He should’ve never tried to run from Arthur.

 

“I won’t run anymore. Promise.”

 

Arthur exhales heavily against John’s neck, and his shoulders sink like he’s relieved. John pushes his free hand into Arthur’s hair, and slips his other hand between them and wraps it around himself, stroking himself in time with Arthur’s thrusts. He’s been close for a while, it feels like. Close to edge and waiting for Arthur to come with him, but he can’t wait.

 

A few more pumps of his fist and John comes with a shout, everything in him feeling raw and exposed like an open wound.

 

Arthur fucks him through it, trapping John beneath his bulk as he shakes apart.

 

Arthur comes soon after, and he pushes deep into John and holds himself there, chest heaving. John holds him close, fingers digging into Arthur’s shoulders, wanting to keep him there for as long as possible.

 

Eventually, the cooling come on his belly and the softening of Arthur’s cock inside him make staying like that uncomfortable. They move slowly at first, just stretching limbs and disentangling from each other. John’s hips ache like he’s been riding a horse for three days straight, but he supposes that can’t be helped.

 

Arthur leaves the bed and comes back with a washcloth that had been left on the table by the door along with a basin of water.

 

“You could’ve gone easy on me,” John says as Arthur wipes him clean. Normally he'd insist on doing that for himself, but he doesn't want to move. “I ain’t gonna be able to walk tomorrow.”

 

“Good thing you don’t got anywhere to be,” Arthur replies, taking extra care with John’s sensitive areas.

 

“What about… headin’ back?” It’s not that he wants to rush back to the gang. He just figured that Arthur would want that to be their next move. He’s never known the man to stay away from home for long if he can help it.

 

Arthur smiles and shrugs his shoulders as he takes his turn cleaning himself off. “I figured we’d spend a week or two in town, seein’ what trouble we can get up to. I already sent Abigail a letter to let her know you’re alive.”

 

John’s eyes widen. “Did you tell her…?”

 

“No.” Arthur sets the washcloth aside, then dims the lamp and joins John in bed. Neither bothers to put any clothes back on. John is too sore, and he imagines Arthur is exhausted. “I told her that I’d leave that up to you. But if you think she’s not gonna figure it out, then you’re an idiot.”

 

John settles in along Arthur’s side under the blankets, pillowing his head on Arthur’s chest. “Why do you say that? I mean, she’s smart, but--”

 

“Because I’m not gonna be able to look at you the same way,” Arthur mumbles against the top of John’s head. “She’s already real familiar with the way I look at you.”

 

“The drawings.”

 

“Mm.”

 

They lie there for long moments, mostly because John is lost in thought until something occurs to him.

 

“Do you remember that night a few years back where I panicked about sharin’ a bed with you?”

 

“Mm.”

 

“I got drunk and you hauled me back to the hotel room.”

 

“Mm.”

 

“Did you hold me like this?”

 

“No, I didn’t. But I wanted to.” Arthur’s arm tightens around him and he sighs into John’s hair. “You kept mumblin’ in your sleep. Havin’ bad dreams.”

 

“Why didn’t you?”

 

“Go to sleep, John.”

 

John quiets down and does just that because he doesn’t feel like pressing his luck. He can’t deny that sleep sounds preferable to anything else right then.

 

He sleeps peacefully through the night, tucked against Arthur, without any bad dreams to speak of.

 

\--

 

John and Arthur spend a little over a week in Sparks together, and they stay in bed for a generous chunk of that time. It feels perfect, for a while.

 

John doesn’t argue with Arthur when he says they should go back to the gang, even though there’s a small part of him, a selfish voice deep down, that wonders if Arthur would run away with him. Disappear towards the West and really get away from all of this.

 

He quiets that voice quickly.

 

And he isn’t disappointed that he did when he sees Abigail and Jack again. Abigail stares at him for a few moments, her expression completely neutral, before she hands Jack off to Arthur and hugs John so tightly that he feels bones in his back pop more than once.

 

He hugs her back, tighter than is probably comfortable, but she doesn’t complain.

 

Arthur takes Jack a little ways away, to give them some privacy. The whole time, John can hear him talking to Jack, asking him about what adventures he got up to while they were gone and acting like Jack’s babbling actually means something.

 

John starts to release Abigail, intending to go see his son, but she doesn’t let him go just yet.

 

“Abigail?”

 

“It’s Arthur, isn’t it?” she whispers, breath warm against his ear.

 

John is surprised, for a moment, then he smiles and hugs her tighter. Goddamn, Arthur was right. He’s got one smart woman.

 

“Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

 

She sighs and relaxes against him. “Good. I’m glad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then they lived a happy, polyamorous life until RDR2!!! The end!!!


End file.
